


you lay your bets and then you pay the price

by star_munches



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: 5+1 Format, Angst, Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie) Spoilers, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Hurt Gamora (Marvel), Hurt Peter Quill, Hurt/Comfort, Major Character Injury, Peter Quill Feels, Protective Peter Quill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-08
Updated: 2018-11-19
Packaged: 2019-07-27 15:04:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 32,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16221566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/star_munches/pseuds/star_munches
Summary: "Why did you do this?" Gamora whispers, suddenly unable to speak her usual volume. "Why did you put your life on the line?"Peter purses his lips, looking uncharacteristically small. "I mean, that's what friends do, right? They stick up for each other?"Gamora shakes her head. "Friends do that when it'snecessary.I had it under control. Youknowthat I can protect myself. What you did was completely idiotic. Why did you do it?""I guess I just couldn't help myself," Peter says, a smile tugging at his lips. "You have that effect on me."(or: five times Peter idiotically risks his life for Gamora, and the one time he... can't)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! So... I've been thinking about this fic idea for a while. I know a lot of iterations of this theme of Peter idiotically risking his life for Gamora have been done before, but I'm hoping to add some of my creative ideas to the mix. Maybe. Idk. Let's find out. 
> 
> Title of this fic is from the song The Things We Do For Love by 10cc (bc I'm a sucker for 70s music). If you know it, then you're my new favorite person.
> 
> Anyway, enjoy! <3

Gamora feels… exhausted, to say the least.

It’s been a hectic week—first the stressful job the Nova Corps had offered them, then the inevitable failure of the plan that eventually led to a captured Groot. Killing every living being in that building to get him back may have contributed to Gamora’s sore muscles. 

But it’s nothing that Gamora hasn’t done before. The  _ physical  _ exhaustion she can handle—besides, she has body modifications that can moderate that sort of thing. It’s the  _ mental  _ toil Gamora has been through that has really tired her out—from the non-stop running around to the constant worrying about everyone’s safety. 

To top it off, it’s only been a mere month since Ego, which sends everybody’s anxiety levels to the max. 

And now, finally, when they’re far from harm, every team member safely bunked on the Quadrant _ ,  _ Gamora can’t adjust to the peace.

Staring at the ceiling of her room, Gamora finds herself unable to shut off her brain enough for just a few hours of sleep. She can withstand long periods of no rest, no problem—she’s done it before. But after the series of frenzied events that made up most of her week, Gamora had really been hoping to get enough shut-eye to feel revitalized the next morning.

Sighing, Gamora swings her feet off the side of her bunk. If she can’t sleep, then she might as well take over someone else’s shift in the pilot’s chair. They’re currently docked at Xandar right now, after receiving payment for their very tedious work—and since no one had any reasons to leave the planet, they’d opted to simply stay docked for the night. Normally, if they were parked at a planet, they’d just sleep and rely on the ship’s alarm systems to alert them of any trouble. But now, after everything with the Sovereign and Ego… no one had objected the notion that they should keep watch in shifts. The least Gamora can do now is relieve whoever’s currently working of their duties.

Making her way to the front of the ship, Gamora stealthily passes each room of her teammates, trying to avoid waking them up. They deserve their rest, she knows—just because Gamora can’t sleep doesn’t mean that they don’t get to, either. Loud snores emerging from Drax’s and Rocket’s rooms tell her that they don’t have any plans of getting up.

Finally, she arrives at the cockpit, which is occupied, of course. The soft glow of the Zune is the only source of light in the room, yet Gamora can make out that nest of tousled blond hair anywhere.

Peter tenses, as if he can sense her presence. Setting down his headphones and music player, he turns slowly to face her. A beat passes until he recognizes Gamora under the dim lighting, and his facial features brighten visibly.

“Gamora. Hey. You’re up late.”

She nods, taking a seat in the chair beside him. “Thought I could take over from you if that’s alright.”

He frowns. “Take over? I just started this shift an hour ago. You should get some more sleep.”

“It’s fine,” Gamora replies briskly. “I have mods for this sort of thing. You haven’t been sleeping well for weeks, and with everything that’s happened these past few days, I think you need to sleep more than anyone.”

Peter is silent for a moment, studying her—and then, slowly but surely, his usual cocky grin forms on his face. “So you’ve been paying attention to me, huh?”

Gamora scoffs, rolls her eyes—prays that he believes her nonchalance more than she does herself.

“What I’m  _ saying  _ is, you should go back to your bunk and get some sleep while I take over your shift.”

His grin fades. “Yeah, see, the thing is—I would, maybe, if I could, but I can’t. This isn’t even my shift; it’s Drax’s. I took over from him because I couldn’t sleep a wink. And I’m guessing you’re struggling to do the same.”

Gamora doesn’t respond, which Peter apparently takes as a  _ yes.  _

“Let’s both stay up. We can listen to music, chill out for a bit—oh! I know. We can go for a walk outside. We’re docked at a more suburban part of Xandar, so it’s nice to be out there. Plus, it gets our minds off of stuff.”

Gamora narrows her eyes. “Peter, someone has to stay on watch. We can’t just both leave.”

“We’ll stay close to the ship. Besides, the Quadrant’s safer than the Milano _.  _ The others will survive.”

Gamora sighs. It’s a stupid idea. They’re supposed to be on watch, yet Peter insists on  _ leaving  _ the ship in favor of relieving themselves of their own boredom. It’s stupid, it puts the others in danger, Gamora gets absolutely  _ no  _ benefits from it—

“Sure. Fine. Let’s take a walk. But make it quick.”

Peter positively  _ beams  _ from ear to ear at her words. “Whatever you say, Gamora.”

 

* * *

 

Five minutes later, they’re both standing just outside the Quadrant, the cool breeze hitting their faces. It’s dark, nighttime at this part of Xandar. The area isn’t quite as deserted as Gamora had assumed it to be—it seems to be a residential district, with identical houses lining down the streets. It’s pleasant, far less populated than the city.

“This sort of reminds me of Missouri, in a way,” Peter says as they start walking down the street. 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. All the houses, the backyards, everyone sleeping peacefully inside… I don’t know, it just makes me remember.”

Gamora doesn’t know what to say to that, so she says nothing. After a moment of uncomfortable silence, Peter gently links his arm with hers.

She raises her eyebrows at that—what is he doing? But she feels how soft his grip is, how he’s allowing her an escape at any time… so she relaxes.

“Have you ever thought about it?” Peter suddenly asks, turning to her.

“Thought about what?”

He gestures to the area surrounding them. “Staying somewhere. Not constantly flying around on a spaceship, working our asses off for money, doing what it takes to survive. Y’know, like, settling down.”

Gamora’s throat goes dry.  _ Settling down?  _

“I guess I’ve never really thought about that,” Gamora says quickly, unlinking her arm with Peter’s. “Besides, I doubt we’ll ever have enough money to even consider that option.”

Some expression flashes across Peter’s face—disappointment, maybe? Or hurt? Gamora scrambles for something to say, a way to change the topic,  _ anything _ —

“Oh, wow, what do we have here? The  _ Guardians of the Galaxy?” _

Gamora whips her head around to find the owner of the new voice, coming face to face with a pale-skinned Xandarian man with sparse brown hair and glaring eyes. He’s standing in front of a house on their right, his hand loosely clutching a bottle of some sort. 

“Y’all ain’t no heroes,” the man sneers. “Y’all just happened to be in the right place at the right time. You don’t deserve none of those prizes them Nova Corps have been throwin’ at you.” 

Peter and Gamora exchange a glance—they’ve dealt with this before. Not everyone was pleased by their little performance against Ronan last year. 

Peter steps forwards, his hands up in an attempt to placate the stranger. “Okay, man, we hear ya. No one here’s angry, okay? Why don’t we just go back to our ship and you can—”

“ _ I’m  _ angry,” he snarls. “I’m angry because there are thieves and murderers and assassins on a ship, flying around the galaxy and bein’ called heroes!”

“Look, I don’t get it either. But we’re changed now! And our lives aren’t joyrides or anything—we still have to work to get money, just like you and everyone else! We saved your planet, man, isn’t that enough?”  
Peter isn’t succeeding in placating the man—that much, Gamora can see. If anything, he’s only making him angrier.

“Peter,” she breathes. “Maybe we should just—”

The man’s glare turns to Gamora. “Oh, you wanna join the conversation, bitch? Sorry, I don’t talk to Thanos’ whore of a daughter. If you wanna talk to me, first try talking to all those hundreds of people you’ve killed. Oh, wait! You can’t!” He spits in her face. “You killed them, and yet here you are, praised as a fucking  _ hero!” _

Gamora isn’t fazed—not one bit. She’s heard far worse insults in the past. This man’s petty words mean nothing to her.

But Peter… his hands are clenched into fists. His glare is growing fiercer by the second, his body positioned as if he’s about to attack.

Gamora’s eyes widen in alarm. “Time to go, Peter,” she says, tugging his arm lightly. “We don’t have time for this.”

But he won’t move—his attention is completely directed at the Xandarian. 

“Peter,” she repeats, a little harsher this time.

“Oh, no, let him come, honey,” the man laughs. He clenches his fists, preparing himself. “Let’s see how much these  _ Guardians  _ are really worth in a fight.”

“You son of a bitch,” Peter mutters. “You can say what you want about me, but you do  _ not  _ insult Gamora.”

If this were any other occasion, Gamora would roll her eyes at Peter’s stupid,  _ stupid _ devotion. But this is getting serious.

“That’s enough,” Gamora says. “This is pointless Peter, just come with me and let’s  _ go. _ ”

But it’s too late. Gamora watches as the man stalks toward him, teeth bared. 

Peter growls, charging toward the Xandarian as well. Gamora is glad that he hasn’t pulled his blasters—at least he has that much sense in him—but he shouldn’t be attacking this stranger in the first place.

“No!” Gamora shouts, but her command holds no effect as the men charge each other. 

She swears under her breath. Why does Peter always have to be so  _ stupid?  _ She has no choice but to watch as Peter attacks the man, landing a punch square on his jaw.

The man staggers back, surprised, but quickly recovers—abnormally quickly for a fragile Xandarian such as himself. He dodges Peter’s next punch and swipes his leg under him, using his lack of balance to slam him to the ground. He hits the concrete, hard—Gamora swears harder—and the man smirks, triumphant. But Peter takes advantage of his distraction, grabbing the man’s feet from his position on the ground and somehow maneuvering them over his head. The man squirms in mid-air before he lands cold on the ground.

Gamora could’ve been proud of him—after all, Peter had just used one of the moves she had taught him during training—but then, of course, he blows it all to shit  _ again.  _ He gets up shakily from the ground and lands throws another punch to the man’s face.

The man grunts, clearly not able to get up or fight back. Yet, Peter still lands more kicks and punches, one after the other. One punch in particular to the nose earns him an unsettling  _ crack.  _

The sight of Peter beating this man up is enough to send Gamora back in action. Soon enough, she’s dragging her friend away from the Xandarian, yelling at him to  _ stop  _ because this is just taking things too far. He fights back, clearly wanting to beat up the man some more. Peter’s strong, but Gamora’s stronger, so eventually he gives up, panting, knuckles coated in blood.

“What were you  _ thinking?”  _ Gamora snaps. “You don’t just go attacking anyone who shows up on the street, Peter! And when he’s finally down, you don’t  _ beat him senseless, either! _ ”

Peter glances at her, the slightest sliver of guilt evident on his face. He opens his mouth as if to say something—but then closes it again, frowning.

That’s when Gamora hears it—the distant sirens echoing throughout the neighborhood. 

“Oh no,” Gamora mutters. She scans the houses surrounding them—a few windows are lit up. “The people saw us. They must’ve called the Nova Corps.”

She casts one more glimpse at the Xandarian stranger—he lies unmoving on the pavement, although his chest is still rising and falling unsteadily. His body is bloody and battered and he  _ definitely  _ has a broken nose. 

Gamora turns away from the man and grabs the sleeve of Peter’s jacket, yanking him with her. “We have to get back to the ship,” she says, breaking into a run. “The Nova Corps are far away, judging by the sirens, but we still need to get the Quadrant out of sight before they arrive.”

Peter’s expression looks somewhat apologetic. “Look, Gamora, I—”

“Save it,” Gamora cuts in sharply. “Let’s get out of here first.”

Peter trails after her as they hurry back through the pattern of paved roads. Thankfully, they hadn’t gone far on their walk—they’d made sure to keep the Quadrant in sight, so they only have to run a block or two to get back. Finally, they reach the entrance. Gamora waits anxiously and hears the Nova Corps sirens growing ever closer while Peter runs the necessary scans and locks in order to gain entry. The door slides open—they both squeeze inside—Peter sprints up to the cockpit while Gamora frantically shuts the door behind them.

When she’s sure that the entrance is closed and locked, she dashes up the steps after Peter and joins him in the cockpit. He’s already furiously messing with the controls when she finds him, and with a sudden lurch, the ship lifts into the air, leaving the surface of Xandar. 

With a ship this size, they move much slower than the would’ve in the Milano. It’ll take them a good couple of minutes to gain enough speed to escape the Nova Corps — if that’s even possible. 

Gamora glances apprehensively out the window. She can’t hear the sirens anymore from inside, but that doesn’t mean that the officers are gone. 

Sure enough, in the distance, Gamora can spot a cluster of ships with bright headlights slowly making their way toward them. 

Her heartbeat quickens. “Peter, get us out of here.”

He grunts, pulling so far back on a lever to the point where it might break. “I’m trying,” he manages. 

Gamora takes the co-pilot seat next to him. She pulls out her holo and frantically scrolls through it. “There’s a jump point five clicks away from here. Go through it and we can orbit the planet Maveth—I don’t know if the Nova Corps can make the jump in their pods.”

Peter nods, messing with the wires in the control panel of the ship, and soon the Quadrant lifts into Xandar’s atmosphere at a faster pace.  _ Too  _ fast, it almost feels like, especially for a ship this size. Gamora looks out the window again—the Nova Corps are close, but still far away enough for them to escape. They’re rising into the sky, out of Xandar, away from trouble—

“ _ Shit!”  _ Peter exclaims. Gamora whips her head around to face him—from what she can see, a wire has sparked and gone out in the control panel. The speed the Quadrant had currently been gaining wavers. 

Her eyes widen. “What now?”

“I put this thing into override, to get us out of here—shit!” Peter cries. The ship wavers in mid-air even more. “This thing’s not made for such fast space travel! One set of thrusters are out!”

“Can you make the other one work?” 

“I mean—” Peter stops suddenly. His gaze is fixed on the window in front of them—the bright lights of the Nova Corps are gone. “Where did they go?”

Gamora checks the cameras around the ship, looking behind them, below them, anywhere the pods could’ve found themselves while Peter was attempting their escape.

“They’re gone,” Gamora mutters.

Peter stares through the window in disbelief. “What the hell? _ Why?  _ Are they below us? Behind us?”

She looks back to the captain. “They left. I don’t know. Let’s act now, think later. Can you get the thrusters working so that we can get out of here?”

“The wrecked set of thrusters will take some time to fix,” Peter says, again meddling with the wires in the control panel. “But the other one still works. Maybe. Possibly. Let’s find out.”

A few minutes later, the Quadrant has left Xandar’s atmosphere and teeters through the clicks, although very unsteadily. A ship of such massive size, propelled by only one set of thrusters… it’s a miracle it hasn’t collapsed yet. Peter’s face scrunches in concentration as he tries to keep the ship from overturning. How their teammates have managed to sleep through all this racket will forever remain a mystery.

“Here’s the jump point,” Gamora informs Peter, at last.

The jump is uncomfortable, to say the least. It’s not as disastrous as the one in Berhert (oh great, another pleasant memory to fill Gamora’s mind), but it’s still destructive nonetheless. The room shudders. A terrible screeching noise fills the cockpit. Thankfully, alarms haven’t gone off throughout the whole ship, immediately waking everyone up, but Gamora can still list the amount of damage noted on her holo. Broken thrusters, dented metal panels on the outside of the ship, several missing pieces… they’re going to lose a lot of units for this.

Finally, they slow to a constant pace, settling to orbiting the planet Maveth. Peter lets out a long breath, sets the ship to autopilot, and releases his hands from the controls. 

He gives Gamora a sheepish smile.  “Sorry ‘bout that.” 

She stifles the urge to roll her eyes. “Did the Nova Corps follow us through the jump point?”

Peter checks the ship’s monitors. “I don’t think so. That was weird, wasn’t it? That they just stopped chasing us?”

“Yes, it was,” Gamora replies. “I don’t suppose it was because they got tired and went home.”

He grins. “Nah, they probably just realized that it was the freakin’  _ Guardians of the Galaxy  _ and since we did so much work for them earlier this week, they decided to let it pass.”

“Perhaps,” Gamora says stiffly.

“Well then… “ Peter stands up from his chair and backs away slowly from Gamora. “It’s been a few hours. It’s probably your turn for the shift now, anyway, so if you want to take over like you said before, that’s fine, I can go back to my—”

“Peter.”

He stops moving and turns around tentatively to face Gamora. 

“Yes?” 

She sighs. “Give me your hands.”

His brow furrows. “My what?”

“Your  _ hands,  _ Peter. You broke a man’s nose with your bare fists and you mean to tell me you don’t have a single split knuckle?”

“Oh, oh right,” Peter laughs awkwardly. “Yeah, forgot about that.”

Gamora brings out the first aid kit and instructs him to sit in the common area so that she can tend to his wounds properly. His injuries aren’t grievous—a split knuckle is hardly anything to worry about—but she hates that he got hurt, unnecessarily, on account of  _ her. _

“Why did you do this?” Gamora whispers, suddenly unable to speak her usual volume. “Why did you attack this man?”

Peter purses his lips, looking uncharacteristically small. “I mean, he insulted my best friend. That’s what friends do, right? They stick up for each other?”

Gamora shakes her head. “They do when it’s  _ necessary.  _ That man was no threat—sure, he seemed to have some fighting experience but we both easily overpower him. I had it under control. You  _ know _ that I can protect myself. Then, you insisted on beating him up, even after he stopped fighting— _ why?” _

“I guess I just couldn’t help myself,” Peter says, a smile tugging at his lips. “You have that effect on me.”

“No,” Gamora breathes. “You could’ve killed him, Peter, and then the Nova Corps would’ve killed you. Saving the galaxy a few times doesn’t give you permission to go trying to  _ kill _ people, for no  _ reason _ —”

“Hey,” Peter says softly. He brings his bruised hand up to caress her cheek and only then does Gamora realize how hard her heart is pounding, how fast she’s taking her breaths. “It’s okay,” he tells her. “I’m sorry. It was a stupid thing to do. I made you worry, I made the Nova Corps chase after us—I’m sorry. But I meant what I said. You’re my friend; I’ll protect you, even if you could take that guy out in the blink of an eye.”

They stay in that position—Peter caressing her face with one hand while Gamora holds the other—until she clears her throat awkwardly. He gently withdraws his hand and allows her to continue bandaging it.

“Thank you, Peter,” she says, and she means it. It’s the first time anyone has pledged to protect her in decades. Thanos’ empty promises of safety don’t count, will  _ never  _ count in Gamora’s mind. Unlike Thanos, Peter has actually proved today that he  _ will  _ be there for her, even if she doesn't need it. And sure, it’s idiotic. It was completely unnecessary, going after that man—and yet, Gamora feels her heart warm at the gesture. “It… it means a lot,” she manages.

She looks up into Peter’s eyes again—he’s grinning, like an idiot, his face plastered with that stupid, foolish,  _ irresistible _ smile. 

“Anytime.”


	2. Chapter 2

“Rocket! Where are you?”

Attempting to communicate with one’s teammates in the midst of a massive battle has never been an easy thing to do. This particular brawl is no different. Not only is it difficult to fight amid the mountains of debris on Sakaar, but trying to see and talk to each other while fighting is nearly futile. This job isn’t a choice, though—it’s part of the whole ‘saving the galaxy’ business, as Peter refers it to.

Even Rocket isn’t fooling around on this mission… although it probably doesn’t matter. The whole plan is already going downhill anyway.

After a few seconds of static, his voice eventually picks up over the comms. “Other side—by the ship— _Groot, stop that_ —we’re fine—”

Movement behind her: Gamora swiftly dodges the incoming blow, then springs up again, Godslayer in her hand. She catches a brief glimpse of the Sakaaran’s face—dark and hollow, devoid of any expression—before she plunges her blade into his chest.

Calmly withdrawing her sword from the fallen Sakaaran’s body, Gamora picks up her communicator again. “Rocket?”

“Groot ‘n I are at the opposite side of the field by that d’ast Sakaaran ship,” Rocket responds, out of breath. “Where’s Quill and the others?”

“Over here!” Comes Peter’s shaky voice through the comms. “Oh wait, you guys can’t see us—uh… Drax, Mantis, and I are sort of down at the edge of the valley, right in the middle, surrounded by debris, y’know?”

Gamora cuts down another Sakaaran to her left and scans the field for any sign of her friends. “No, Peter, I don’t know.”

“Well, then—okay, yeah. I don't know either. We’re sort of lost.”

Gamora sighs, realizing the fruitlessness of the plan. What they’d _intended_ to do today was to stop a group of Sakaarans from illegally transporting their weapons to their allies in the outer reaches of the galaxy. The Guardians’ first attempt had been diplomacy, which had failed miserably. Now, they are trying to stop the Sakaarans from boarding their ship and taking off. In a plan they’d formed in about ten seconds, they’d agreed that Rocket would get inside the ship and disable its engines while the others held the enemies off.

Problem is, Rocket isn’t even _inside_ the ship yet, half their team is lost, and they’re about to be outnumbered _real_ soon.

“What d’you mean, you’re lost?” Rocket cries. “Are you still fightin’ the Sakaarans? ‘Cause if you’re leaving them all to Greenie then I swear—wait, actually, I think we have a better chance at winning if you do that.”

“Yeah, we’re fighting, alright,” Peter says, completely ignoring Rocket’s last comment. “Well, Mantis is hiding in a makeshift cave made out of the rubble. But there are Sakaarans everywhere. What are you doin’, Rocket? Are you even _on_ the ship yet?”

As the two bicker, Gamora takes down more enemies around her. A stab in the heart, a severing of a limb, a blow to the skull. She doesn’t feel any pity or remorse for her victims—after all, they’re all sociopaths and murderers who have been planning to provide supplies for an intergalactic war. She’s starting to feel good about their battle— _they might actually win this_ —when, of course, things go wrong.

Gamora’s senses warn her about the incoming threat before she even knows what’s happening. Then she feels it—the tremors resonating through the ground, shaking the pile of debris that she is standing alongside. She glances up the surface of the mountain, sees the rocks and rubble tumbling down at massive speeds—

_Oh no._

There’s a group Sakaarans standing at the top, chucking the debris down the mountain until it eventually causes an avalanche of its own. Gamora acts without a second thought, sprinting as fast as she can down the side. The pile of debris is small—with the amount of pressure being put on it right now, it could threaten to collapse, engulfing not only the rubble but also the Sakaarans and Gamora. Her legs pump quicker, back and forth, back and forth.

Gamora’s fast—but the mass of metal tumbling down behind her is faster. She’s close to the bottom, but she’s not _close enough,_ and the debris trailing her is thrice her size—

Seeing no other option, Gamora flings herself to the side, her body hitting the ground at the bottom of the mountain and something snapping with a sickening _crunch_. A spike of pain rushes up through her calf, but she ignores it in favor of letting out a sigh of relief.

_That was close._

The mounds of rubble that were about to crush her roll uselessly down the rest of the hill, eventually crashing into a stop at the bottom. Trying to pick herself off the ground, Gamora takes a moment to collect herself. That jump was rough, lacking the gracefulness and efficiency she usually bears. _Is this how Peter feels all the time?_ She looks around—the avalanche seems to have stopped. Good. That doesn’t mean the battle is over yet, though. She can’t see as well from below as she did from atop the hill, but from what Gamora can tell, the Sakaarans are still fighting back.

She readies herself for resuming the fight… but there’s a strange feeling in her calf. Almost like a numbness, but somewhat more like an aching. Gamora frowns, reaching for her lower leg, reaching out to touch it—

A white, hot, _searing_ pain emerges from her calf. She jerks her hand away—but it’s too late. Her head sways as her heart pounds in her ears, the sound immersing every cell in her body. She panics, her leg throbbing, her vision tinted red.

_Get a hold of yourself._

She shuts her eyes tight and wills the pain to subside. She can manage this. She’s managed worse, much, much worse in the past.

Suddenly, Peter’s voice resonates through the comms. “Okay, guys, I think I know where we are—woah. Did you see that avalanche the Sakaarans caused? Damn. Anyway… Rocket? How we doin’?”

Rocket gives a muffled reply as Gamora shakily gets to her feet again. She’s checked her leg; nothing punctured and no skin broken, so it must just be a fracture from the landing. An easy fix. Nothing to worry about. She can probably keep fighting, too—she’s fought through worse. Besides, the team needs her. They’re already outnumbered as it is—without her, there’s no telling how bad the fight will end.

“...what do you say? Gamora? Hello? Gamora, can you hear me?”

She stirs. “Yes, sorry. What was—what was that again?” She doesn’t miss the strain in her voice, or the way her breaths are quick and shallow, but she hopes that the others don’t notice.

“Drax was suggesting that…” Peter hesitates. “You okay? You don’t… uh, you don’t sound so good.”

“I’m fine, Peter,” Gamora responds, annoyed. She winces as she takes a step over the rubble, her calf throbbing even more. “What was Drax saying?”

“I am Groot!”

“Yeah, Groot ‘n Quill are right,” Rocket says. “You don’t sound so hot right now, greenie.”

Gamora rolls her eyes. “I said I’m fine. Just a fall, nothing to worry about.” She holds Godslayer in front of her, prepared for an attack, but all the Sakaarans seem to be gathering near the ships. “Can you _please_ just tell me what you were about to say.”

“Alright,” Peter says, sounding uncertain. “Drax said that… okay, wait—Gamora… are you hurt or something? Do you need help? Because I really don’t think that—” he stops himself. “Oh god… “

“What now, Peter?” Gamora says frustratedly, the throbbing from her leg making her light-headed.

“Tell me you weren’t in that avalanche.”

Gamora freezes, cursing her inability to lie properly. Peter knows her too well; one attempt at deceit and she knows she would be caught. And then he’d _pour_ himself over her, making sure that she was okay, that she got medical attention—Gamora just doesn’t need that right now.

“No,” she replies. “I mean—yes. But it’s fine. I can still fight. Don’t worry about me.”

“Gamora,” comes Peter’s surprisingly stern voice through the comms, which is unfair because _she’s_ supposed to be the stern one. “Are you hurt? Answer me. Did you break anything?”

“I’m _fine,_ Peter,” Gamora sighs, exasperated. “Seriously. A broken leg is hardly anything to fret over.”

Too late, Gamora realizes her mistake.

“Where are you?”

“Peter—”

“No,” he says firmly. “Tell me. I can help you. You’re not fighting with a broken leg. Where are you?”

“I don’t _need_ your help. I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”

He snorts. “Oh yeah, I know that. Doesn’t mean I’m not gonna try. I just gotta find you.”

Gamora groans in frustration. “Peter, are you _seriously_ going to—”

“Hey, can you two lovebirds hold your arguments until later?” Rocket says. “We’re kinda in the middle of a fight here.”

Choosing to ignore Rocket’s side comment, Gamora examines her surroundings again—she’s still alone. Wherever she is, she’s stranded by herself, and the fight is clearly a long ways from her.

Peter huffs. “Yeah, stay out of this, Rocket, unless you wanna help. Which is something you _never_ wanna do, so just stay out. Gamora—you gotta help me here. There’s no way you’re battling with a—”

“Look out!”

Drax’s sudden comment makes Gamora’s stomach churn. Sounds of gunfire intensify over the comms.

“What was that? Peter, are you and Drax okay?”

A beat passes before he speaks again. “Yeah—we’re fine.” His voice is rough and out of breath. “It’s just hard to pay _attention_ when _someone_ is being unnecessarily stubborn.”

She rolls her eyes. “If there’s anyone being unnecessarily stubborn here, it’s you! You’re making a big deal out of a minor injury!”

“You know what?” Peter demands. The sound of a machine whirring echoes through the comms. “I’ve got an idea.”

Another wave of pain rolls through Gamora’s body, making her wince. She wants to keep standing up, to prove her point that she _can_ still fight… but her head is starting to feel dizzy, her sight getting blurrier. “What—what is it? Not anything stupid, I hope?”

“Nah,” Peter says, and Gamora can almost _hear_ him grinning. “I’m gonna fly up with my rocket boots and find you from above.”

Almost immediately, outrage and protests erupt over the comms.

“What? Quill, that’s insane!”

“If you do that, then you’ll get shot out of the sky!”

“I am Groot!”

“Peter, I _swear,_ if you do this—”

“Guys! I’m serious!” Rocket’s voice sounds panicked, for once. “Both of you need to stop arguing because _we are in a fight right now_ and as much as I’d like to see you both get killed, it’s not as fun if I get killed along with you! Hold off your squabbles until we get off this damn planet!”

“Yeah, but see, the thing is—Gamora’s hurt, but she won’t admit it.” Peter retorts. “She doesn’t want my help, but I’m not gonna sit back and let her be vulnerable to a bunch of assholes with swords. So I’m gonna go up there and look for her, whether she likes it or not.”

He softens his tone. “Look, Gamora, I know you think you’re fine. I get that you’re badass and you wanna keep fighting. But you’ve got the team. I’ll just bring you to the Quadrant, get your leg and everything fixed up, and that way, it won’t get any worse. I promise.”

She hears the sound of his rocket boots whirring, and she realizes he’s coming to look for her. The shameful part is, she _knows_ that he’s right and _feels_ that her injury could become grievous if she tries to battle or even walk with it. She wants him to find her, to relieve her of the pain that’s now pulsing mercilessly throughout her whole body. He can _help_ her.

“Peter, I—I…” she stammers.

Then Gamora catches sight of Peter’s figure rising into the sky from across the field, his rocket boots slowly and unsteadily propelling him into the air.

She shakes her head, resolute. “No _._ I won’t let you do this. I can fend for myself. Do you hear me? Besides, there aren’t even any Sakaarans where I am right now. I’ll be fine.”

“Too late,” Peter mutters through the comms. “Already looking for ya.”

“ _No,_ ” Gamora snaps. “You need to help Drax. He can’t hold an entire army on his own. Don’t do this.”

Gamora watches with mounting fear as the Sakaarans begin aiming their weapons at Peter, who was surprisingly managing to the blasts. “I’m coming, whether you like it or not,” Peter shouts over the sound of gunfire. “These Sakaarans have terrible aim with their guns. I’ll survive. And Drax will be fine too. Right, Drax?”

Drax grunts over the comms. “I suppose, for a very short period of time.”

“See? Perfect. Everything will be perfect. I just gotta—”

“Honestly, Peter, what don’t you understand about the words _I’ll be fine?”_ Gamora asks incredulously. “You’re idiotically risking your life, _and_ the lives of others, for something that isn’t worth it!”

“But you _are_ worth it, Ga—”

Peter’s voice cuts off abruptly with a grunt.

“Peter?” Gamora calls.

Silence.

She stands up, ignoring the pain that immediately swells up in her leg. She searches the skies for her friend, her eyes eventually catching on a figure falling fifteen feet from the sky.

_“Peter!”_

Shit.

“Oh no,” Mantis whispers into the comms, breaking her silence.

Peter’s body plummets downwards until it hits the ground, the noise still drowned out by the gunfire of the battle.

Gamora’s heart sinks.

“What happened?” Rocket asks. “I can’t see you guys from inside the ship—did something go wrong?”

“Mantis, get over to him,” Gamora commands. She hobbles over the ruins with quick, unsteady steps, pain shooting up her leg.

“I can’t—”

“ _Go!”_

“O—okay,” Mantis stammers. “Be careful.”

“I’ll cover you,” Drax says.

As Gamora makes her way across the field, she watches with horror as the Sakaarans gather around Peter’s body. The pain from walking is excruciating, but she ignores it—she _can’t_ be focused on that right now when a dozen Sakaarans are forming a semi-circle around her friend, closing in for the kill.

Except… they’re not closing in. If anything, they’re moving backward. As Gamora gets closer, she begins to notice the semblance of smiles etched onto their faces.

“What are they…” Gamora trails off. She notices the creature in front pull something from the inside of his coat, something small and spherical. Something that suspiciously looks like...

_Oh no._

“Gamora,” Mantis warns. “Gamora, I don’t think—”

The Sakaaran draws his arm back and throws the grenade.

 

* * *

 

The next few minutes are a blur, like a scene from a hazy dream Gamora only half-remembers. She recalls screaming as the grenade was thrown, her cries only muffled when the explosions started.

After that, things become blurrier. Turns out, Sakaarans aren’t the brightest race in the galaxy. They hadn’t stood nearly far away enough from the blasts, the shrapnel eventually striking down half of them. Drax must’ve taken care of the remaining ones.

The thing Gamora remembers doing was digging through the ruins, scouring through the rubble for any trace of Peter she could possibly find. She recalls the hysteria, her weak sobs, the constant flashbacks to Ego and explosions and Yondu and _oh god._ Gamora knows how it feels to think that she’s lost him—she never wants to go through that again. And yet… Gamora had been tearing through the debris to find his body, clinging onto any last hope that he might still have been alive.

It’s when Drax had tentatively suggested they pause in looking for him and instead focus on finishing the job that Gamora snapped. She remembers yelling, sobbing, lunging at him… she probably would’ve done damage if not for her _damn_ leg holding her back and making her collapse to the ground, writhing in agony. Her vision had gone black.

When she had woken up, the others had completed the mission. Rocket and Groot had successfully infiltrated the ship and stopped whatever the Sakaarans were trying to do. The remaining opponents were either dead or unconscious. Gamora can recall having that unsettling pit in her stomach, making her head spin, having nothing to do with the fractured bone in her leg.

“Did you find Peter?” Gamora had asked. She was returned with silence.

At that moment, Gamora hadn’t been capable of screaming. She could only feel numb.

 

A few hours later, Mantis shyly comments on sensing life fifty feet down the field.

 

* * *

 

A few minutes after that, Drax is dragging a body out from the ruins. Peter’s breathing. His clothes are torn and his body is battered and his hair is covered in blood, but he’s breathing.

_He’s breathing._

 

* * *

 

Hours later, they’re gathered in the local hospital, still on the wretched planet of Sakaar.

Gamora is silent; whenever she tries to talk, her hoarse voice just reminds her of the pain and grief that wracked her only a short while ago. She’s not embarrassed by reacting like that; rather, she’s ashamed. Groot had been watching the entire time, getting more traumatized by the second. She vaguely recalls lashing out at Mantis, Rocket, and Drax multiple times as well. But out of all other emotions, Gamora is mostly relieved. Peter’s alive, after all.

He’s alive.

But he hasn’t woken up.

There’s only one chair in Peter’s little hospital room, and the bed is obviously occupied by Peter himself, so the rest of the team has gone to rest in the Quadrant while Gamora’s opted to stay and watch over their captain. The room is cramped and has the unpleasant sterile scent typical of hospitals. The IV hooked up to Peter drips every few seconds, the heart monitor beeping in the background.

She can still hear the doctor’s voice in her head: … _bruised ribs… shrapnel in his chest, shoulder, and thigh. It missed his vital organs but if you’d waited another hour, he’d either bleed out or get a fatal infection. He’s suffered some hearing damage from the explosions, but our tech can most likely fix that._

_You’re lucky, Guardians. Extremely lucky._

As she stares at Peter in his hospital gown, she’s struck by just how _close_ she came to losing him. His battle scars are fresh—the wound on his shoulder from the shrapnel peeks out from his collar. The dust and rubble from the battlefield have been washed off by now, but Gamora still can’t get that picture of Peter,   and helpless, covered in blood as Drax pulls him from the ruins, out of her head.

Truth be told, Gamora has no idea how Peter managed to survive. Somehow he avoided getting buried under the rubble as well as getting immediately blown up by the grenade. _He should be dead,_ a voice in Gamora’s head tells her. _Next time, he will be._

“Hey.”

Gamora jumps. “Peter! You’re awake!”

_That was quicker than expected._

“Yeah…” he frowns and sits up in his bed, taking his surroundings, the IV connected to his arm. “What happened? Why am I in a hospital? Can I please _not_ be here? Because I really hate hospitals, y’know, thanks to—”

His voice cuts off as he breaks into a coughing fit, his whole body convulsing.

Gamora wordlessly hands him a glass of water from his bedside table.

“Thanks,” Peter says hoarsely after he takes a sip. Gamora wants to hug him, wants to hold him in her arms because he’s _alive_ and not gone forever like Gamora had thought—but she refrains herself. Instead, she settles for simply taking his hand in hers.

A faint smirk graces Peter’s lips. “So… what happened?”

Gamora purses her lips. “Do you remember anything?”

He scoffs. “Of course. I remember… we were fighting the Sakaarans, we were winning, obviously—uh, I was going in the sky with my rocket boots because…” His eyes widen. “Your leg. Oh god, your leg. What happened? Are you okay?”

Gamora suppresses a smile. Her comminuted fracture had been the least of her worries since arriving at the hospital. As soon as they got there, the doctors took a look at her, deemed the bone fractured into multiple pieces, and performed a quick open-leg surgery to remove them. By now the pain has subsided a fair amount and her internal mechanics _and_ the cast the hospital provided her with are working together, trying to set the bone in place for regrowth. This is nothing compared to what Peter has gone through, especially considering that he doesn’t have mods in his body. And yet, here he is, worrying about her.

“You were knocked twenty feet out of the sky, nearly got blown up by a grenade, got shrapnel in your chest and barely avoided infection. The real question is, are _you_ okay, Peter?”

“I’m great,” Peter says quickly. “Really great. So, uh, since I’m so great, can I get out of this uncomfortable, stuffy, disgusting, very-Terran-looking hospital?”

Gamora shakes her head. “I’m sorry, but I thought you were literally _blown up_ less than twenty-four hours ago. You’re staying here.” She softens her tone when she looks at him, so weak and tired and _vulnerable,_ sitting upon that thin mattress, body covered in bruises. “Look, I know you don’t like it. But we almost _lost_ you, Peter. You have to heal, recover before we launch back into space. We probably won’t spend longer than a week here, anyway. It’ll be fine.”

“A week?”

“In the meantime,” Gamora continues, “you can explain to me a few things. For example: how in the _world_ did you survive that? What knocked you down from the sky? How did you not get blown up? How are you even _alive_ right now?”

Gamora realizes that her hand has tightened its grip on Peter’s so much that his knuckles are turning white. She softens her grasp.

“How,” she says, “are you here with me? That should’ve killed you.”

Peter takes his other hand and covers Gamora’s with it as well, tracing delicate patterns into the back of her palm. “Honestly, I don’t completely remember,” he begins. “I… was in the sky, and then—oh! And then this Sakaaran idiot threw his club thingie at me and busted one of my rocket boots! That’s why I was falling. Then I was trying _not_ to fall, but I’m pretty sure I failed. _One_ of the boots was working at least, so… I survived, obviously.”

He furrows his brow. “But then… I’m not sure. I was sort of in a haze, y’know, not thinking straight, but then… that guy threw that bomb-looking thing at me, and at first, I was like _ooh what’s that_ and I almost reached out to touch it but then I came to my senses and took cover behind this big slab of metal. Then… I don’t know. I was flying, I think. The explosion sent me back really far… then I blacked out. Honestly, I’m just as clueless as you are here.”

Gamora takes a deep breath. “Well, it doesn’t _really_ matter _how_ you survived—the good thing is that you’re breathing. But…” she glances into his eyes. “We need to talk about before. What happened with my leg. You, trying to come in and save me.”

He grins. “Yeah. I’d do that all over again if I was given the chance.”

She stares at him incredulously. “Are you kidding? That’s the reason you got into this whole mess! My broken leg was nothing, and you made it into this whole big deal!”

“How did your bone break?” Peter interrupts.

Gamora blinks. “What?”

He hums. “Tell me. How did you break your bone?”

“It… I broke it when I was running from the avalanche. I must’ve slammed it against the metal the wrong way or something. Why do you need to know?”

“And what type of fracture was it?”

“The doctors said it was a comminuted fracture. Peter, is this really necessary—”

“Can you say that in normal-people vocabulary?”

Gamora rolls her eyes. “The bone broke into several tiny pieces.”

“And you had surgery to fix it, yes?”

She stares at him, realization dawning on her. “Peter, are you trying to justify your rash and idiotic actions by saying that the break was bad enough for them?”

He shrugs. “Maybe.”

“Unbelievable,” Gamora mutters. “Really? After everything?”

“I’m just sayin’. I had, what, a bruised rib? Meanwhile, you had to get freakin’ _surgery_ to get yourself patched up. You would’ve continued to fight if I hadn’t stopped you, and then you could’ve passed out, or broken it even more, or—”

“Yes, and usually, after people have surgery, they lay in bed for weeks. Meanwhile, thanks to my _resilience_ and _body mods,_ here I am, walking around, functioning as normal as ever!”

“Exactly!” Peter exclaims. “You should be lying in bed, not me! In fact, our bunks in the Quadrant are best, so we should head over there right now and rest!”

Gamora growls. “Peter, for the last time, we are _not_ leaving the hospital. Not today, not tomorrow. Not until you are _healed._ ”

He raises his hands in a placating gesture. “Fine! But can you please, _please_ admit that, for once, I’m right and you’re wrong? Sure, I got hurt, but it’s nothing I can’t handle. You’re making a big deal out of my injuries when you really have nothing to worry about!”

“I have _plenty_ to worry about, Peter! _I thought you were dead!”_

The heart monitor fills the silence.

_Beep beep. Beep beep._

“I’m sorry,” Peter whispers.

And Gamora feels terrible—not that he _shouldn’t_ feel sorry, what he did was immeasurably foolish—but still. Peter risked his the job, risked his _life_ just to help her. And, although Gamora won’t admit it, he is right—she should’ve just accepted his help from the beginning without being so stubborn.

Still. He made her think that she lost him, _again._ It was terrible and heartbreaking and yet the kindest thing anyone’s ever done for her.

“Don’t do that again,” Gamora mumbles. She clears her throat, lifting her chin. “I need you. I mean—the _team_ needs you. If you die on us… it’ll break all our hearts. So don’t do it.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Peter says, a smile forming on his face.

Gamora nods, once, twice, three times, before clearing her throat again. “I should probably get the others from the ship. They’ll want to see you.”

“Of course.”

She glances at him, and then the door, “So I have to leave then.”

“Yeah.”

She gets up from her chair, starting toward the door, but Peter chooses that moment to give her hand a little squeeze and she just _can’t take it anymore._ She flies back to him, leans over his bed, wraps her hand around his neck—

Their lips meet.

Butterflies erupt in Gamora’s stomach. His lips are soft. She allows herself to indulge in the kiss for one moment—two—before pulling away, breathless.

They stare into each other’s eyes.

“That didn’t happen,” she whispers.

Peter swallows, his face flushed. “Nope.”

“We are not a thing.”

“Nothing at all.”

“I’m leaving now.”

“Obviously.”

Gamora lets go of his hand and strides firmly to the exit, only hesitating at the door frame. She turns back around to Peter, trying to say something, _anything,_ to make the situation less awkward—but when she sees him, their eyes meet again. He looks so happy, so _dreamy,_ that it takes everything in her to not rush back to him and kiss him again with the fierceness she usually saves for slaughtering her enemies.

Gamora turns abruptly on her heel, nearly slamming into the door frame on her way out.

She still can’t get Peter’s expression out of her mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you liked it, please leave a comment and kudos. Also, be sure to check out my Tumblr [here](http://the-masked-hero.tumblr.com). 
> 
> Thanks for reading! <3
> 
> ~Iris~


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So… I guess I’ve been feeling chafed by the insanely low word count limits in some of my classes or something and I used this chapter to rebel?? Idk. It started out as a 4k word draft. Now it's 7.3k of pure angst (and some comfort at the end for good measure).  
> Anyway, enjoy!

“Alright, are any of you a-holes ready to get this mission over with?”

Rocket leaps onto the table in the ship’s common area, facing the entire team as he tries to get their attention. Gamora stands up, sheathing Godslayer at her side. She casts a glance at the others; Drax is leaning with his back against the ship’s walls, probably thinking about something else. Groot—almost half Rocket’s size at this point—stares through his father figure with bored eyes and detached interest. Mantis is the only one already on her feet, looking oddly excited for someone who’s about to embark on their most dangerous mission yet.

“Oh, yeah,” Peter calls from the cockpit where he’s currently piloting the ship. “What did you say the pay was? Seventy-five thousand units?”

Rocket smirks. “We’re gonna be rich.” He turns to glare at the others. “But _only_ if you guys can _stick to the plan_ enough to not get us killed along the way.”

Groot’s uninterested expression fades, morphing into a frown; if possible, Mantis’ eyes widen even more.

“We’ll be fine, Rocket,” Gamora says, glaring at him. “Why don’t we go over the plan one more time before Peter lands the ship by the facility?”

“Right.” He clears his throat. “So, we start with Drax and Mantis—ay, Drax, you payin’ attention?”

Drax stirs. “What? I wasn’t listening.”

Rocket groans, palming his forehead. “Here I am, trying to be a good captain, for once _actually making a plan._ And nobody listens! _”_

“Hey! I’m the captain!” Peter shouts.

“Nobody asked you, Star-Munch!”

“Boys,” Gamora warns. “We have five minutes at best. Try again, Rocket.”

He sighs again, waiting for a count of three before speaking again. “Here’s the plan: We enter the building. Groot n’ I sneak into the control room, where we disable the communications and the security systems. Once we do this, they won’t be able to contact each other, but neither will we. So you idiots better not be dyin’ on me, ‘cause it’ll take a few hours before we get the information and the comms back up so that I can save your asses.”

Gamora rolls her eyes. “What about the rest of us?”

“Drax and Mantis have the important job—getting the information. First Drax will capture some hostages, and then Mantis will grill them. Just like we practiced.”

Drax frowns. “I do not see how Mantis will help us acquire the information by burning the prisoners.”

“I will not _burn_ them,” Mantis says. “Peter told me that I will simply ask them questions and use my powers to get our answers! But if necessary, he did grant us permission to burn the opponents.”

“And Peter and I?” Gamora asks, fighting hard to keep her expression under control. “What will we do?”

“Well, you’ll be on the lookout,” Rocket explains. “I’ll have the control room, so we’ll have the upper hand, but that doesn’t mean that some of the goons will be hiding in some closet or something.” He looks at Gamora, a smirk forming on his face. “I know it’s a pretty simple job for you guys, and _yeah,_ there’s gonna be a lot of empty hallways and closets and stuff, but I swear, do _not_ make me regret pairing you two up alone together.”

It takes a moment for his comment to register, far too long for Gamora’s liking—but when it does, she feels her face burn.

She sends Rocket the nastiest glare she can muster. She opens her mouth to comment on it, to make him regret he ever opened his mouth—just when Peter calls out again from the cockpit.

“We’re landing, folks. Get ready.”

Gamora closes her mouth, continuing to glare at Rocket from the corner of her eye.

He just smirks.

 

* * *

 

 

Five minutes later, the team exits the ship after Peter landed it in a secure location. The building they are forced to operate in is tall and gloomy, towering over Gamora as if it’s just _warning_ her that something is about to go wrong.

Gamora has no trouble believing it—after all, only about 10% of their missions go according to plan.

After the Guardians sneak through the side door Rocket had located, they agree to split ways. Groot and Rocket head down to the control room, while Mantis and Drax search the upper floors for any criminals to take hostage. Gamora and Peter start out on the main floor, scouting the area and protecting the others. It’s a good thing they‘d studied a map of the building beforehand—otherwise, they would’ve been lost a long time ago.

Static buzzes over the comms before Rocket’s voice comes to life. “Alright, a-holes, can ya hear me?”

“I am Groot!”

“Yeah, obviously _you_ can hear me, Groot, you’re standing right beside me! I was asking the idiots over the comms!”

“We can hear you, Rocket,” Gamora says as she stealthily sneaks after Peter through the narrow corridors.

“Us too,” Mantis adds.

“Good,” Rocket says. “Okay, so we’re in the control room, I’ve got the security cameras and the comms for now. Quill, Gamora, there’s no one on the main floor, so you can move up.”

Gamora nods to Peter, and with a silent agreement, they head to the staircase in the corner of the floor. “Have Mantis and Drax found any criminals yet?”

“Not yet,” Drax responds. “We are in the midst of searching.”

“Yeah, I’ve got the cameras, Drax, so I’ll help you,” Rocket says. “But I gotta remind you guys—as soon as you take prisoners, I have to turn the comms off. These guys are ridiculously paranoid. They’ll have extra forces on their side in minutes, and they won’t care about the hostages. They’ll just open fire.” He pauses. “Uh, Drax, there’s someone coming your way.  Corridor to your left.”

There’s a crash, a faint sound of something cracking, and several grunts of pain.

“We have found ourselves a prisoner to burn,” Drax announces.

Peter groans. “Just let Mantis interrogate him.”

“Oh yeah,” Rocket mutters. “The other guys heard the crash. They’re incoming from the fifth floor—Quill, Gamora, you guys take them down before they reach our little prisoner. I’m turning off the comms now.”

Gamora breaks off into a sprint, heading toward the staircase with Peter trailing close behind her.

“One more thing. Just—” Rocket hesitates. “Remember why we’re getting info from these guys. They’ve got the baddest war tech in the industry, not including mine, of course. Their gas bombs are _insane_ —like, the gas will make your skin come off, or it will make you hallucinate for hours, or it can destroy all your body modifications—I’d be dead in seconds—”

“Okay, Rocket, we get it,” Gamora snaps, out of breath. “We’re on the third floor. Turn off the comms like you said!”

“Just be careful!” Rocket shouts quickly. “Or—or not. I don’t really care. Do whatever you want. Just don’t screw up the mission for the rest of us.”

The comm line turns to static right as Gamora and Peter reach the fifth floor. Slamming open the door to the stairwell, they’re immediately met with the sight of a small group of criminals, standing a dozen or so meters away, oblivious to the Guardians’ presence. They seem to be still searching for the cause of the noise.

Gamora shares a quick glance with Peter, an unspoken agreement already in place between them. His eyes are resolute. She lifts Godslayer while Peter brandishes his blasters.

Together, they charge.

 

* * *

 

 

Within a matter of minutes, every opponent on floor five is down. Well, almost every. Peter slams the butt of his blaster on the skull of the last one, promptly knocking him out.

He grins. “Nice.”

Gamora retracts her blade, wiping the grime off her forehead. “We were too loud. The walls in this building are thin; anyone else that’s awake will be alert by now.”

“What should we do then? Do you think Drax could hold them off on his own if they find him?”

She shakes her head. “Like Rocket said, if they find him, they won’t hesitate to kill him and the others. We had an advantage, here—the element of surprise. They didn’t use their fancy guns because they weren’t prepared. Against Drax and Mantis… our team won’t make it.”

Gamora sighs. “I think we should go after them. This was the easy round. I have no doubt it’ll get much harder from here on out.”

Peter chuckles. “Oh, yeah. This’ll be fun.”

They make their way up to the next floor without incident, the hallways seemingly empty and devoid of any life. Floor seven is the same, every corridor completely deserted.

Floor eight is where the trouble begins. As soon as they open the doors, Gamora spots a poorly concealed being in the corner of the room, a gun sheathed on his thigh. Peter blasts him, but the man has stronger reflexes than they’d assumed. He dodges the blast with ease, pulling out the gun of his own and readying it against the Guardians. Gamora stalks up to him, Godslayer in hand, avoiding his first blast and using the time to manage a jab at his thigh.

As he bellows in pain, Peter blasts him once again in the stomach, his aim perfect.

The man crumples to the ground.

“That was easy,” Peter says, nudging the fallen goon with his boot. “Hey, nice gun. Do you know which floor the others are on? Or should we just—”

Gamora’s eyes widen. _“_ Peter, _look out!”_

But it’s too late. A new, larger opponent has already jumped out behind him. He lands on Peter’s body, both hitting the ground with a _thud._

“No!” Gamora shouts, thrusting him away from Peter. The opponent rolls to the side, expertly flipping onto his feet and wielding his gun.

“The hell did you come from?” Peter demands, shakily getting to his feet.

The man shrugs. He’s got to be at least seven feet tall, with a towering demeanor and a hideous smile. “We have a few secrets in this building,” he says, his voice surprisingly casual. “Unfortunately, you won’t be able to tell them to your friends. You’ll already be dead.”

“We’ve survived this long,” Gamora retaliates.

She charges the man.

Instead of charging to meet her, he just grins and steps back. Between them, a near-invisible door swings open, revealing a dozen armed men stepping into the room, all just as tall and powerful as the first.

“So that’s where he came from,” Peter says meekly.

Gamora growls, raising Godslayer higher. “Go!”

They charge the new opponents, blaster and sword against the highest-tech guns in the galaxy. The men’s blows are weak—Gamora blocks them with ease—but when they actually fire their guns, the blasts are a little harder to dodge.

Beside her, Peter seems to be faring just as well; blocking the punches, narrowly avoiding the blasts. Gamora manages to stab one of the goons in the stomach, but not before his friend grazes her arm with his gunfire. Peter knocks another one out with the hilt of his blaster, but the men behind him are gaining on him fast.

Try as they might, they are outnumbered, outgunned, and ultimately at a disadvantage. Gamora fights like a hurricane, toppling the men over and knocking them out when possible. She frantically tries to avoid their blasts— _fifteen men with impeccable weapons against one assassin and one space pirate is not a good idea_ —

“Give up, honey.”

Gamora whirls her body around to find the leader of the goons pressing the barrel of his gun against Peter’s temple. He thrashes around, trying to break free, but to no avail.

As swift as a viper, Gamora uses her own weapon to sweep another man off his feet, bringing him up again to force her blade against his throat.

“You first,” she challenges.

He smirks. “Oh, slice away. It won’t make a difference.”

Rocket’s words echo in her mind, something about _not caring about their own men._ The goon whimpers in her grasp pathetically.

The sound of Gamora’s heartbeat throbs in her ears.

_If they’d wanted to kill Peter, they would’ve killed him by now._

“What do you want?” Gamora demands.

“Oh, I want a lot of things,” he responds, pressing the gun harder against Peter’s head. “Compliance, first and foremost. But before that…” he glances at his remaining friends, exchanging a grin. “We have some… _equipment_ we’d like to experiment on.”

Gamora surveys the situation; one against five, not including the man she has in her grasp. Not to mention Peter, who’s still thrashing uselessly against his captors. When he glances at Gamora, he stops.

His eyes hold trust, a certain kind of _faith_ in Gamora that makes her aching heart warm. He’s confident in her ability to make the right decision.

Gamora makes eye contact with the man who’s holding Peter captive—he’s smiling. Triumphant. Positive he will win.

Gamora takes a deep breath.

In a heartbeat, Gamora slices her captive’s throat in one quick movement, simultaneously sweeping her leg in front of her to knock one of the goons of his feet. She releases the man she was holding, bringing the hilt of her sword down upon the other man’s head—he crumples to the ground—

“Now, now, none of that,” The captor says dismissively. Gamora looks up to see the other men have their guns pointed at her, their faces as expressionless as stone.

Gamora was foolish for even trying, but at least that’s two fewer men for Drax to fight once they move upstairs. Now she knows that they want both of them alive; they would’ve killed Peter already if they wanted her to comply.

The man raises his eyebrows at Gamora. “Don’t go disobeying us. Remember, we only need one of you for the experiments. Two is better for… cooperation.” He turns to one of his own men. “You. Contact the others. Get them to send more men up here.”

The smaller man looks up timidly. “I—I’ve tried that already. Something’s wrong with our communicators. None of us have been able to contact the boss!”

The leader’s nostrils flare. “We are in the highest tech building in the galaxy, and you’re telling me you’re having problems _communicating?”_

Gamora desperately tries to come up with a plan— _save Peter, take the others and run_ —but unfortunately, her mind isn’t working.

And the leader of these goons is pressing the barrel of his gun hard enough against Peter’s head to leave bruises.

He squeezes his eyes shut, sighing. “Forget this. Let’s take these two to the chambers. We’ll deal with your petty issues later.”

A man divests Gamora of her Godslayer before taking his place behind her. Gamora has no choice but to follow as the men drag Peter out of the room and down the hallway, guns still pointing at them from every direction.

She assesses the situation while they walk, still frantically trying to find a way out. No aid from Peter—he’s helpless against these men, seven feet tall of pure muscles and high tech weapons. No help from the rest of the team. And no Godslayer, either.

This isn’t the worst situation Gamora has gotten out of. Far from it, even. But the other, more dangerous situations she’d been in had only included Gamora, no team involved whatsoever. Now there’s much more at stake.

And she has no idea how to get out of this.

Finally, the come to a stop at the end of the corridor, one of the men pressing his thumb to the door to unlock it. It swings open soundlessly, revealing a small, circular room inside. The leader shoves Peter in, his body slamming against the metal floor. Another goon pushes Gamora in shortly thereafter.

She glares at their captors with as much vehemence she can muster. “You’ll never win this.”

“Oh no, this isn’t about winning or losing,” the leader says, smirking. “We’re just collecting data on the performance of our toxic gases. Running tests, analyzing the results. Really, you brought this upon yourself by infiltrating our headquarters. Anyway, have fun!”

The door slams shut, sealing itself from the outside.

Peter picks himself up from the floor, groaning. “Hey! Come back here!”

He runs to the door and slams his fist against it repetitively, not even leaving a mark. He turns back to Gamora, horror spreading across his face. “We can find a way out of this, right?”

“Of course,” Gamora says immediately. “We’ll be fine. We just need a plan. Rocket is watching over the security cameras, so maybe he’ll help us.”

Peter frowns. “Yeah, but they could’ve found him too. And even if he is fine, there’s no guarantee he knows where we went on the cameras. Maybe he’s too focused on Drax and Mantis to pay attention to us right now.” He snorts. “Or maybe he doesn’t care and is just sleeping on the job.”

“I find that highly unlikely,” Gamora mutters. “Look, we are going to be fine, okay? We just need to make a plan.”

Peter throws his hands up in an exasperated gesture. “What plan, Gamora? Face it: we’re stuck here. Inside a circular metal room, with no idea what they’re going to do to us, with no friends or weapons—” He freezes.

“What is it?”

“My blaster,” Peter murmurs, his hand going to the holster on his side. “He took the one I was holding, but not the other one!”

Sure enough, Peter’s blaster is there, in good shape and nearly fully loaded.

“Good. That’s good. That means we have something we can work with.”

“Yeah… lemme just…”

Without warning, Peter shoots the door they came from, the sound abrupt against the walls of the tiny room.

Peter steps up to the door eagerly, seemingly hopeful for some good news—but when he turns back to Gamora, he looks crestfallen.

“Nothing. Not even a scratch.”

Dejected, he takes a seat in the back of the room, leaning against the wall. Gamora tentatively follows his suit and sits beside him.

“I have ten shots left in this thing,” Peter explains. “I wanna use them the right way. These walls are blast-proof, nothing’s gonna get to them.”

Gamora sighs, crossing her legs. “I guess we’ll just have to wait… for the others to not fail and save us.”

Peter smirks. “Now you know how it feels to be useless.”

She shakes her head. “The situation could be much worse than we think it is. They could already have captured the others, and hurt them, or—or worse—”

“Yeah, I know. But they promised us suffering in this room, and so far, we’ve got none.”

Suddenly, a mechanic whirring noise fills the room, seemingly emerging from the walls. A hatch opens from the ceiling; from it, spews a bright orange gas.

Peter turns pale. “I just had to say something, didn’t I?”

The orange gas fills the room slowly, inch by inch.

“Quick! Put on your helmet!” Gamora orders.

“What about you?”

She grits her teeth. “I have body mods that will filter out the gas. I’ve been in situations like this before. I’ll be fine. Put on your mask before it’s too late!”

“Okay, okay,” Peter says, reaching behind his neck to activate it. Suddenly, he pauses. “Wait…”

“What now, Peter?”

His eyes widen. “But… if the gas is—you can’t—”

“We don’t have a lot of time!” Gamora cries. “Activate your helmet—you have no idea what type of gas it is!”

His expression hardens. “You’re right. I don’t.”

He reaches behind his neck again, but instead of activating it, he takes the earpiece off.

“What are you _doing?”_

“I know you’re going to be mad at me,” Peter says, reaching out for Gamora and tucking her hair behind her ear. “You’ll think I’m stupid for doing this. But if I’m right… and I do nothing about it… thing’s will be so much worse.”

“What the hell are you talking about? Why are you putting your earpiece on me?”

He places the device behind her ear and activates it, and for the second time in her life, the mask materializes on her face.

Through the X-Ray vision of the helmet, Gamora sees the toxic gas more clearly, growing ever nearer.

“Peter,” she growls, “get this thing off of me.”

She tries to deactivate it but ends up cursing instead—Peter has it locked. Only he can take it off. God, why does Peter have to be such an _idiot?_

He shakes his head. “Look, let me explain—”

“No! Stop trying to be idiotically heroic—there’s nothing heroic about this! It’s just stupid! We’ll both be fine if you just _listen to me!_ ”

“I’m sorry, Gamora,” Peter says slowly, his voice breaking. “But Rocket said—”

The gas reaches him and englufles his figure. He freezes, not saying anything for a moment. Then his eyes roll into the back of his head and he falls facefirst onto the floor.

Gamora sighs.

 

* * *

 

 

Gamora isn’t sure how long it’s been inside that stifling metal room. She has no way of telling the time. Her one and only source of company is passed out cold. And the rest of her team may or may not be alive.

Perfect.

The orange gas that has consumed the room hangs in the air, unmoving. Peter’s skin looks washed-out in contrast, though maybe that’s just the tint of the mask.

The helmet is more high-tech than Gamora had previously assumed. Just by looking at Peter, the mask gives her information on his vitals; he’s alive and healthy, although unconscious and with a strange new toxin in his systems.

 _That’s what you get from being an idiot,_ Gamora thinks bitterly.

Peter’s body shudders beside her. All of a sudden, he bolts upright, gasping—his eyes clouded with pain.

He swallows, obviously trying to compose himself. “Wha—what happened?”

Gamora rolls her eyes, though she has to admit she’s relieved he’s even awake _at all_. “We’re still in the building, the same room we were in before you passed out. Are you feeling okay?”

“No. I mean—yeah. But…” he frowns. “I recognize this place.”

“Uh, yeah. We’re in the same place as before. Are you planning on deactivating this mask for me, or do I have to break it to get it off?”

“No,” Peter murmurs. “No, this is not the room—this is—Jesus Christ. Why are we on Terra?”

Gamora raises her eyebrows. “Terra? Peter, are you sure you’re feeling alright?”

“Those sick bastards…” Peter shakes his head, rising unsteadily to his feet. “Why are we here?”

“We’re _here,_ in this _chamber,_ on a random planet in _space,_ because you’re an idiot! There is no other reason here except for your stupidity!”

But Peter doesn’t respond—his focus is now completely fixated on a particular spot on the wall.

Gamora sighs and gets to her feet as well. “Look, do you plan on helping me get out of here, or are you just going to—”

“That’s where I was taken,” Peter whispers, pointing to the wall. “By—by Yondu. In Missouri.  Walk a little further…” his voice breaks. “The hospital door is _right there.”_

Gamora’s annoyance slowly fades and replaces itself with concern. “Um, Peter? Are you—do you want to sit down again?”

But apparently, Peter’s mind simply refuses to process her words. He looks around the room with a newfound astonishment, as if everything is transforming around him. “What happening? Why are we—” his expression hardens. “You,” he snarls, glaring at the door.

“Alright,” Gamora says. She takes his hands in hers. “There’s no one there. It’s the gas, it’s going to your brain or something, I don’t know—”

“We killed you!” Peter yells at the door. “We killed you because you ruined my life! You killed my mother! You tried to kill my friends!” His hands are shaking. “And now you’re back.”

Gamora’s stomach sinks as she realizes who he’s talking about. “He—he’s not back. You’re hallucinating. Peter, look at me.”

For a split second, he stares at her, looking almost normal again. Gamora’s filled with a sudden surge of hope—maybe they’ll get through this after all. Then his eyes glaze over, and Gamora notices how he’s not staring _at_ her, more like _behind_ her—

Oh, no.

“Yondu?” Peter whispers, his lower lip trembling. He lets go of Gamora’s hands to walk up to the corner of the room with tears threatening to spill from his eyes.

They’re going to be here a while.

 

* * *

 

They stay like that for at least a few hours—Peter running around the room, his nightmares becoming his reality, while Gamora desperately tries to calm him down. Sometimes he screams at the top of his lungs, other times he just sits and stares miserably at the wall. He doesn’t seem to acknowledge Gamora all that much, save for that one time he asked her for the strongest liquor she had.

The situation is bad—yes. Depressing, too. But could it be worse? Absolutely. As far as physical pain, Peter seems fine… although Gamora can’t know for sure. He won’t talk to her at all. Sometimes she doubts he even knows she’s there.

Gamora’s still pissed at him for giving her the helmet. She _knows_ she could’ve filtered out the gas if he’d only worn the helmet himself, but now that he won’t communicate with her, there’s no way for her to get it off. She manages to feel some pity for him at least—after all, no one wants to relive their worst nightmares.

(Gamora would know.)

Right now, Peter is sitting with his legs crossed, his eyes fixed on that one spot on the wall. Gamora tentatively steps up behind him, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Peter? Do you mind helping me with something?”

She holds her breath, awaiting his response—but he simply stays silent. Gamora curses and retreats back to her corner of the room.

“You don’t look like her.”

Gamora turns around to find Peter on his feet with his eyes set on her.

“Look like who?” Gamora asks softly.

He turns back to the wall again, his expression solemn and distant. “My mom.”

Gamora’s breath hitches.

“She’s in that hospital bed, right there. She’s dying. Ego is killing her.”

“Peter—”

“When will it end?” He demands. He turns back to face her with a wild frenzy in his eyes. “It’s been years. When will it ever stop hurting?”

Gamora steps closer and wraps her arms around him, holding him. He doesn’t hug her bag, exactly, but at least he doesn’t push her away. His tears soak into the collar of her shirt.

“I don’t know if it ever does.”

 

* * *

 

 

By now, Gamora’s gotten better at counting the time.

It’s been three hours.

She thinks about their teammates—are they even alive? Did Drax and Mantis get the information, or were they killed by all the opponents Gamora failed to defeat? Are Rocket and Groot okay?

God, Gamora and Peter had _one job._ An easy one, too, at that. Yet, here they are, in a predicament they’re unlikely to get out of without either getting rescued or dying.

And Peter’s _still_ not okay. If anything, he’s getting worse.

What can Gamora do?

Right now, he’s mumbling incoherently, rambling things about the team and Groot and Gamora under his breath. She hasn’t left his side since that hug—especially since he tried banging his head against the metal wall at one point—but he still won’t meet her eyes. He’s immune to her soothing words now, it seems, and Gamora has no other way to help him.

His muttering grows louder, more insistent, as he grows more agitated. His eyes sweep across the room, untrusting, alert, awake for any danger.

Gamora’s blood runs cold as her mind settles on one terrible thought: _what if he never recovers from this?_

Panicking now, Gamora takes Peter’s face in her hands, forcing him to look her in the eye. He looks startled—scared, almost—completely different from the Peter she knows so well.

“Peter,” Gamora breathes. She doesn’t know what to do, has no idea how to solve this and make everything better again. She wants to kiss him—maybe that will send him back to reality—but she can’t, thanks to the _stupid mask._ She settles for the next best thing: wrapping her arms around him and melting into his frame.

Usually, the few times Gamora allows herself to hold Peter, she relishes in the feeling, his warm body aligning perfectly with hers. But now… all Gamora can think about is the coldness of his skin, the stiffness of his posture, his refusal to relax…

And _he isn’t hugging back._

She pulls back, terrified of what he might say. There’s an indifference in Peter’s eyes that Gamora has never seen before. Then, slowly but surely, realization seems to dawn on him.

“Gamora?” he asks quietly, his voice never having been so small.

She laughs in relief. “Yeah. Yeah, it’s me, Peter. You’re safe.”

He takes a step back, shaking his head. “But you’re dead.”

Gamora’s eyes widen. “No, no I’m not. I’m right here.”

“I watched you die,” he whispers. “I watched him kill everyone.”

Peter turns around and points to a spot in the corner of the room. “Rocket was killed there,” he mutters. “They strung him up like… like an animal, for dinner.” He looks up to Gamora again, his eyes shining. “That’s the last thing I called him before he was taken away.”

“Peter,” Gamora warns, “you know this isn’t real. You’re hallucinating.”

What’s the point of even trying anymore? The gas is in him.

 _He’ll never recover from this,_ a voice in Gamora’s head whispers maliciously.

“You’re right. I am hallucinating.”

Gamora looks up.

“I’m hallucinating because you’re _saying_ you’re here when you’re really not.”

He stomps around the room, waving his hands at a wall. “Mantis was killed,” he says with a broken voice. “Drax was killed, Kraglin was killed…” He squeezes his eyes shut. A single tear trails down his cheek. “Groot’s dead, too.”

Gamora watches, sickened, as Peter kicks the metal wall with more force than she’s ever seen him use.

“A fucking _child,_ murdered in cold blood. Just because he and everyone else got in the way of Ego’s plans.”

He turns back to Gamora, his eyes bloodshot and shattered.

“He killed you,” he whispers, his voice breaking. “He killed you—you’re not here anymore—god, I _love you_ more than _anything_ and now you’re _dead!”_

He sinks to his knees, sobbing. Gamora is frozen in place, completely and utterly petrified.

“Peter…”

“NO!” he wails, pressing his finger against his bruised temples as if trying to make the pain go away. “ _He killed you!_ He killed _all_ of you! Every last goddamn person in the galaxy! Everyone, except _me_ and _him!”_

Tears threaten to spill from Gamora’s eyes.

Out of the entire time she’s known Peter, Gamora has learned that Peter cries a lot. It’s not a bad thing—rather, it’s good. In a way, it’s taught her that it’s _okay_ to express emotions. Peter wears his feelings on his sleeves, and that’s the way Gamora likes it.

But this…

Even after Ronan, after Ego, after learning about his mother’s death and losing Yondu… she’s never seen him so heartbroken.

So _hopeless._

He shakes his head, gasping. “I can’t—I’m not gonna—” His hand fumbles around the gun holster on his thigh, searching for something that isn’t there. “I’ve gotta—”

He reaches for the blaster strapped to his other leg, still charged with ten shots.

Gamora realizes what he’s about to do as he raises the blaster to his temple, hand shaking violently.

“Peter, _no!”_

Her vision blurs—her minds reels—she sees the sobs racking Peter’s body and knows that he won’t hesitate to do it.

He won’t hesitate to pull the trigger.

She scrambles to get to him, her body crashing into his. She throws her hands over his blaster, wrenching it out of his grasp.

He screams. It’s the most heartbreaking thing Gamora’s ever heard in her life. Filled with decades of pain, bitterness, grief…

Gamora squeezes her eyes shut. Her hands tremble as she slams the butt of the blaster against his head.

He collapses to the ground, unmoving.

 

* * *

 

How long has it been?

Minutes? Hours? Days?

It still hurts. Seeing Peter so broken, so _desperate_ like that…

He still has bruises from where he pressed his fingers violently against his temples.

Gamora turns his blaster over in her hands, safe mode put on lock. She thinks about the destruction a single gunshot could’ve caused, how things could’ve been so different if she hadn’t made it in time…

A large bump is swelling on Peter’s forehead where she hit him, but she has no regrets. He still hasn’t woken up, but maybe that’s a good thing; there’s no telling how he’ll act once he awakens.

Gamora tries to push unwanted thoughts from her mind— _what if he never gets back to normal? What if you can’t stop him next time? What if the others are dead, and you’re left her to die and rot?_ —but, as with everything else she’s attempted to do today, she fails.

She’s worn the mask long enough for it to chafe against her skin—good. Pain is something Gamora’s always been able to focus on, a feeling to pinpoint while the rest of the world burns around her.

Will they ever get out of there?

 

* * *

 

 

Gamora doesn’t remember falling asleep, but when she wakes up, the first thing she finds is Peter, pressed into her side and snoring softly.

She gasps, startled—did they fall asleep like that? Did he wake up and move? Did _she_ subconsciously position themselves that way?

She surveys the room for threats—none that she can see right away, although she notices that the gas has fully subsided by now. That’s good. Does that mean… things will be back to normal again?

Peter shifts in his sleep, mumbling incoherently—until he opens one eye.

“G’mora?” he mumbles, his voice hoarse.

_“Peter.”_

She wraps her arms tightly around him, wanting to kiss him but still being unable to through the mask. Her tears build up inside the helmet, but for once in her life, Gamora finds herself unable to care.

_Peter’s okay._

“G’mora?” he repeats. “What… what happened? What are we doing here? Why are you wearing my helmet—oh.”

Gamora ignores him. “Are you feeling okay?”

He frowns and rubs his forehead. “I’m fine… my throat hurts like a bitch, though. My head too. It feels like an overinflated water balloon. How long was I out?”

“I have no idea,” Gamora says. “As far as we know, everyone else is dead.”

She sniffs and only then does Peter seem to realize that she’s been crying.

“Gamora, what’s wrong?” he asks, concern laced in his gentle tone.  “I’m sure the team is fine. After all, Rocket said that—”

“Do you really not remember anything?” Gamora interrupts.

“...no. I mean, I remember getting my ass kicked and then being shoved in this room with you, but… that’s about it.”

She forces herself to keep calm, to not break down entirely. He was right before—the others are probably fine. Their team is known for their resourcefulness.

“First, you put your mask on me and locked it for some dumb reason, even though you _know_ my mods can filter it out,” Gamora explains.

“Oh, right… yeah, I can explain that, if you just let me—”

“The gas is gone now, Peter. At least take this helmet off of me.”

He gulps, tenderly reaching behind her ear. The mask deactivates and suddenly Gamora is seeing clearly. She’s able to fully take in the bruises on Peter’s head, his bloodshot eyes, his concerned expression.

“Thank you.”

“Now, about the mask—”

Gamora cuts him off. “Save it. Let me finish. The gas filled the room next. You passed out. After that…”

“What happened?”

Gamora looks into his eyes, glad to see that they were open and alert, not shattered like they were mere hours ago.

“You were hallucinating,” Gamora says softly. “It was—it was bad. Please… don’t ever do that again. _Listen_ to me when I tell you to do something. We’re a team, Peter.”

“I—” he hesitates. “I just—I had to.”

“Had to what? Hallucinate? Make me think that you were going to k—” Gamora stops herself, swallowing. “Well… go crazy?

He shakes his head. “No. I had to put the helmet on you. It’s because—well, Rocket said, before we left, that these guys are super high-tech, right? And then he said—something about a gas that would disable all internal cybernetics? And I just thought—since, y’know—”

_Oh._

That’s why.

His eyes are cloudy with pain. “You understand, right? I didn’t know what type of gas it was, and I just—I freaked out, y’know? I can’t lose you. I didn’t care what the gas did to me, as long as you were okay. You’d do the same for me, wouldn’t you?”

 _Of course,_ Gamora thinks. But she doesn’t dare say it. It’s _so_ much harder to be mad at Peter when he’s sincerely trying to help.

Gamora closes her eyes and tightens her grasp around Peter. She leans in and captures his lips with hers, his warm lips working in harmony with hers. It feels almost normal again, like this whole day never happened, like they’re back in the Benatar late at night, dancing to the soft melody playing through Peter’s headphones. She rests her forehead on his and allows herself—for just a moment—to relax.

“How bad were the hallucinations?” Peter whispers, his breath hot against her lips.

Gamora takes a shuddering deep breath. “They were—I don’t know. I didn’t know what was going on inside your head. But… I think they made you _imagine_ things, from the past, like… like Ego, your mother—Yondu…”

He clings onto her, like she’ll disappear if he ever lets go. “Is that all?”

She shakes her head. “No. Not all of it. After that… you just… I think you saw us dying, or being killed by Ego… you kept saying that he killed the whole team and you were the only one left… “

She glances into his eyes. “You still had your blaster. You were desperate. And you tried—you tried to—you were going to—”

She can’t say it. She can’t. The memories of him holding the gun to his head are all too fresh, all too recent for her to recollect them.

Understanding dawns on Peter’s face. He lets her bury her face in his neck, holding her while tears silently trickle down her cheeks.

“God, Mora,” Peter breathes. “I had no idea. I’m sorry. I’m so _, so_ sorry.”

He strokes her hair and rubs her back while she sobs, whispering soothing words into her ear.

 

* * *

 

Rocket’s voice eventually picks up over the comms.

“We’re on our way,” he says, and that’s that.

 

* * *

 

When the door is unlocked and they’re escorted back to the Benatar, there’s no applause, no tender hugs from the rest of their crew. Rocket stays unusually silent, not making eye contact with either of them, only speaking to inform them that the team got the information they needed. They also killed everyone in the building, right before blowing it up.

“Soon, we’ll have enough money to get by for months,” Rocket mumbles, but he lacks his usual vigor.

Gamora doesn’t blame him.

 

* * *

 

 

Peter stays in her room that night, clinging onto her, both wide awake. They don’t talk, they don’t move, they don’t kiss—they simply hold each other and protect one another from the dangerous realm of sleep and dreams.

Peter had admitted earlier that he did remember _some_ of the hallucinations. Every time he closed his eyes, he got a glimpse of Gamora’s broken body or his father, cackling cruelly. It’s subsiding though, he’d assured her. Soon he won’t remember any of it whatsoever.

Gamora’s not so sure.

“I spoke to Rocket,” Peter says softly, breaking the silence.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. He told me that… he’d seen everything. Through the cameras.”

Gamora’s breath hitches.

“Groot too,” Peter adds quietly.

She turns to face him then and realizes that she’s not the only one who’s been crying. Peter looks damaged again—but not shattered, like he was back in the metal room—this time, he looks like he’s been destroyed by guilt, and shame.

“Groot’s so young. He shouldn’t have to see me like that. And yet, he did. When he saw me again… I think I’ve changed his opinion of me and the world forever. Not to mention Rocket—he won’t even look at me anymore.”

Gamora says nothing.

“I feel terrible. Everything, all of this… god, Groot’s probably traumatized for ages because of this…”

He takes a shaky breath. “I know I messed up. I know… all of this happened because I was paranoid and wouldn’t put on the mask. But really, if I’m honest…” he hesitates. “I would do it all over again if I had to.”

Gamora kisses the top of his head. “How is it possible for me to both love and hate that about you at the same time?”

He chuckles. “Hey, you signed up for this. As far as I can tell, this day earned me a ticket to your bed, so I’d say I’m making progress here.”

“Mhmm. Say that again, would you? I can still send your ass flying out the airlock.”

Peter looks like he’s about to say something, but he wisely chooses to keep his mouth closed. He can’t seem to suppress that smirk, though.

He sighs contently, stroking her hair. “What are we, Gamora?”

She freezes. “Hmm?” she asks, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible.

“Us. You and me. We know there’s an unspoken thing, or spoken thing, whatever—we’re kissing, we’re cuddling… what are we?”

If this were any other day, she would’ve cut him off and ignored him for the next week. She would’ve hit him, glared at him, snapped at him to shut up—but not today. Today is… different, somehow, and not just because of the drama the entire team has been through.

Keeping her voice low, she whispers, “I don't know. What do you want us to be?”

He blinks, confused, before his grin slowly makes its way back on his face. “Well, I’ve always wanted to call you my girl.”

She’s silent for a moment, contemplating. Peter had explained a while back that ‘my girl’ is a phrase to describe one’s girlfriend, and not one’s young female property (like Gamora had assumed). Although she may not admit it, the thought of being called Peter’s ‘girl’ feels rather… fitting.

“And if I’m your girl… does this mean that you are my boy?”

He laughs. “Of course.”

They settle in the silence, still clinging onto each other like lifelines. Peter’s body is warm, as usual, and he smells distinctly of fresh aftershave and scented shampoo. Everything feels so right, so _natural,_ that Gamora starts to feel her body deactivating, her mods powering down for the night, deep in the embrace of Peter’s arms.

“I love you, by the way,” Peter mumbles.

Gamora’s eyes shoot open.

She knows this, of course. It’s not news. He’s mentioned it before. Mantis had even admitted it for him, all those months ago on Ego’s ship. But this is the first time he’s said it _directly,_ not just implying it or mentioning it in a comment.

Gamora glances into Peter’s eyes—they’re closed. He’s already sleeping. It’s too late for her to say it back and have him listen.

If she said it, would she mean it?

 _Of course,_ a voice inside her head whispers.

But can she? After her parents, after Thanos, after years of isolation and loveless days and lonely night—can she really bring herself to admit the words that have been tugging at her conscience for the past year?

Swallowing, Gamora forces herself to part her lips. The words are so common for normal people, yet so foreign coming from Gamora’s mouth. Nevertheless, those words feel strangely natural now, as if she’s been telling them to Peter her entire life.

“I… I love you, too.”

Peter smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don’t expect the next chapters to be as long, I just got super carried away on this one and I have no self-control.  
> Kudos and comments give me FUEL and inspire me to write during the day and not 4 am at night, improving both the quality of this fic and the quality of my school essays. :)  
> Thanks for reading!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So remember last chapter when I said this next one was going to be much shorter? Well… um… anyway… moving on!
> 
> Also, as some of you may have noticed, I changed my name on both AO3 and Tumblr to _the-masked-hero_ (bc I talked to some people and they all said that they didn't understand my last one… welp here we are). Hope this doesn't confuse anyone too much. 
> 
> Enjoy this week's chapter :)

 

Chains chafe Gamora’s wrists.

They won’t leave any bruises, at least not on Gamora or Drax due to her body enhancements and his natural robust skin. Rocket and Peter, however… well, Gamora can’t say the same for them.

At least Mantis is watching Groot on the ship, away from harm. Hopefully, they won’t be too concerned over why their teammates are taking so long when their only task was to replenish their supplies for the Benatar. Unfortunately, Gamora can’t choose when they get randomly ambushed, cuffed, and dragged to an opponents’ secret lair. And, of course, Gamora has no way of deciding whether said lair belongs to a random enemy or their most ruthless and vengeful opponent of all: the Kree Purists.

Of course. Gamora should’ve seen this coming. The Guardians _knew_ that this planet they’d docked at was rumored to be affiliated with the Kree, but they’d brushed it aside in favor of getting their supplies as cheap as possible. It’s been two years since Ronan; it was only sooner or later before they finally took the Guardians by surprise and ambushed them.

So, because of their actions, here they are: Gamora, Peter, Rocket, and Drax, chained up, gagged, and detained by the very people that want them dead the most, while their only sources of help are on the ship and oblivious to the occurring events.

Perfect.

Gamora’s thoughts are disrupted when a tall, dignified Kree man with midnight-blue skin steps into the Guardians’ cell. He’s accompanied by two larger Kree, each remaining loyally by his side like bodyguards. When the man unlocks the door to the cell, his mouth curves into a hideous smile.

“The Guardians of the Galaxy!” he exclaims, his voice filled with poorly veiled malice. “You have _no_ idea how long we’ve waited for this moment!”

“Could you wait a little longer, maybe?” Rocket grumbled.

The Kree’s smile turns sour. “I’m afraid not. See, us Kree have a personal score to settle with you. Ever since your ragtag group of misfits managed to take down Ronan, with your trickery and pathetic combat, we’ve _yearned_ for our revenge. We’ve spent years, planning our moves, plotting our schemes… and now, the time has finally come.”

He spreads his hands, and his guards step forth, aiming their weapons at the Guardians.

“My name is Lan-Mik, and today I have had the honor of avenging Ronan bestowed upon me. You and your measly band of outcasts shall finally get the punishment you deserve.”

Gamora shoots Peter a look, her alarm mounting—he seems just as concerned. But when they’re forced on their knees, arms chained behind their backs, locked in a cell with highly-trained soldiers aiming guns and swords at their heads… there’s not much they can do.

“Which one of you will feel our wrath first?” Lan-Mik asks, smirking.  “Shall it be you, subject 89P13, the reason for the destruction of so many of our Necrocrafts and Sakaaran associates? Or you, Drax the Destroyer, the man who has murdered so many of our allies solely for the purpose of avenging your measly family?”

Drax grunts, keeping his head down. The team knows how much he loathes the Kree, even after successfully put Ronan to death. Being back here in the Kree’s base, rendered useless in their hands while they threaten him and his friends—Gamora can imagine the amount of anguish he’s going through right now.

Lan-Mik turns to Peter, that self-assured smirk never once leaving his face. “What about you, _Star-Lord?_ The legendary outlaw, or so I’ve heard?” Every word drips with venom. “You’re the one who killed our leader, the one and only Ronan the Pursuer. Perhaps you should be first.”

Gamora tries to hold back her discomfort at that statement, but it’s no use—she can feel the hatred brewing in her, contorting her features into a glare.

The Kree must’ve felt her glare because he turns to her next. He clasps his hands with feigned surprise. “What’s this? Don’t like that suggestion?”

He leans close to her, his breath hot against her neck. “Oh, but you’re Gamora,” he murmurs. “Daughter of Thanos. You were Ronan’s ally, _our_ ally, right until you betrayed us.”

He steps back, his malicious smile returning as he addresses the room. “That’s why I propose we start with you,” he says. “I’m sure the other members of our race would agree with me. Right?”

Peter shakes his head violently, but the other Kree in the cell nod and mutter their consent. One blue man in the back, however, clears his throat and steps forward.

“With all due respect, sir…” he falters. “Isn’t it more efficient to torture—I mean, uh, _punish_ them all at the same time? We do have multiple chambers, after all.”

Lan-Mik glares at the man, and he trips over his feet, rushing backward.

“Although that _might_ appear to be a good idea… it’s not. From what I’ve heard, and from the example that Miss Gamora expressed, these so-called _Guardians_ are very close. They’d _hate_ to hear one another’s scream echoing through the halls of their cells.” His eyes glitter with malevolence. “If I’m not mistaken.”

The Kree chuckle and send each other knowing looks. Gamora eyes Rocket, mouthing _any ideas?_ All she gets in response is a shake of the head _._

Dammit. Rocket is the best out of all of them in making efficient plans on the fly. If even _he_ is stumped… Gamora suddenly wishes she’d said goodbye properly to Mantis and Groot before they’d left.

“Without further ado,” Lan-Mik says, “guards, take the girl.”

“No!” Peter shouts, stopping the guards in their tracks.

Gamora shoots him a look— _what is he doing?_

“Uh…” Peter falters. “I mean, um… I thought you guys considered yourselves to be merciful, or whatever. What happened to that, huh?”

Lan-Mik presses his lips together. “We are merciful in our executions, yes,” he says. “A quick, painless death for the offenders. But for you… your deaths simply won’t repent for your transgression against our people. We have to avenge Ronan the… ah, proper way.”

Peter blinks. “Uh, okay. Yeah, sure. But—what about, uh—what if we apologized very nicely, and gave you a very generous amount of money, and then got out of here as fast as we could?”

Lan-Mik narrows his eyes.

“Alright, alright, fine. You want to torture us. Great. No problem. But, uh—why would you start with Gamora? I’m the one who actually killed Ronan, after all.  Shouldn’t you start with me?”

Gamora curses inwardly. _Stupid, stupid idiot._ She knows what he’s trying to do. He’s buying them time. While he gets tortured by the Kree—who are legendary for their torturing—the others have time to go over their options and find possible means of escape.

Except that’s stupid, because Peter’s more resourceful than Gamora, and he has a better chance of actually finding a way out of here. If they actually want to survive, the team will need Peter helping them come up with a plan.

Yet here he is, being a moron.

Lan-Mik senses it too. “You want to… volunteer? For your punishment?”

Peter nods.

 _“Peter!”_ Gamora whispers harshly. He whips his head around to face her. “What are you doing?”

He shakes his head— _you’ll understand later_ —filling her with that sense of dread that arose every time Peter’s about to do something stupid. Needless to say, the feeling becomes more and more common every day.

“He could be lying,” one of the guards speaks up. “They might just be tricking us and plotting their escape.”

Another guard frowns. “But then why is the girl protesting so much? Surely, if they have a plan, they would all agree on it.”

“It might be part of the plan to deceive us,” the first guard supplies.

“Or,” another Kree breaks in, “or, he could be about to do something stupid that would ruin their plan instead of saving it. This woman looks smarter than the man, anyway.”

Rocket snickers, then quickly stops when he sees the glare Gamora gives him.

Lan-Mik clears his throat, capturing the room’s attention once again. “I believe… we listen to him,” Lan-Mik says cautiously. “You’re right, he seems like a moron, more than anything else. Our surviving warriors from the War of Xandar say that he was an incredibly easy opponent. I’ve worked with the daughters of Thanos before—they’re no good actors. If Gamora opposes it, then it must truly damage their chances of escape.”

Gamora curses— _again_.

“Lan-Mik, if I may…” she struggles to clear her voice of distress and speak out powerfully enough to capture his attention. “As you mentioned before, I am the one who betrayed you and your allies. Not Peter. I am truly the best option to start with here.”

She winces at her own pathetic attempt of convincing him properly. He doesn’t seem perturbed by her words in the slightest.

“That’s what I thought, my dear,” Lan-Mik says, smirking once again. “But, you see… now I have reasons to choose your friend Star-Lord instead. You understand, don’t you? Weren’t you the one out of Thanos’ children, along with your sister Nebula, to torture your father’s enemies? Don’t you know how it is?”

Gamora bites her lip.

He smiles triumphantly. “Besides, I’ve heard that children of Thanos are more resistant to most methods of torture compared to the average person. And I’m sure we won’t be as effective in our work if your friends don’t hear your screams echoing through the halls, right?”

“Aw, come on man, that’s just too dramatic,” Rocket grumbles.

Gamora casts Peter an afflicted look— _please don’t do this_ —but, once again, he shakes his head.

Gamora tries reasoning with Lan-Mik again. “Sir, if you just listen to what—”

He waves his hands dismissively. “That’s enough of that. We’ve already spent way too much time on this little chat, anyway. Guards, take the Star-Lord.”

Peter sends an apologetic smile at Gamora as Kree surround him, dragging him by his arms toward the door and out the hallway. Lan-Mik follows. A guard locks the cell door behind them.

Seconds later, they’re out of sight.

As soon as they’re gone, Rocket slumps again the cell wall. “God, what an idiot.”

Drax grunts. “More so than usual, if that’s even possible.”

Gamora’s head spins. What’s going to happen to Peter? How much will they hurt him? Will he even be the same person when it’s all over? How would Gamora be able to live, knowing that her best friend, her _boyfriend,_ is forever broken just because he sacrificed himself for her sake?

“Hey, calm down, Greenie,” Rocket says, nudging her with his chained paw. “Quill will be fine. He’s probably got a plan… or at least twelve percent of one. He’ll get himself and the rest of us out of here.” He frowns. “I hope.”

Despite his nonchalant composure, Gamora can tell that Rocket is uncomfortable—scared even. Slowly, it dawns on her why; they’re in a cell, surrounded by enemies, far away from the rest of their friends, with little means of escape. Peter may or may not get tortured the shit out of him, and as far as Rocket knows, he’s next. Gamora doesn’t know much about his past, but she does know that this particular situation—of pain and misery and torture while the people accountable watch smugly from the sidelines—might bring back some pretty terrible memories.

“I hope you’re right,” Drax says. “I don’t hear Quill’s screams, so perhaps he found a way to avoid torture.”

Gamora nods uneasily, anxiety settling in her stomach like a ship docking at a port. She tries to believe her teammates—really, she does—but it’s difficult to ignore the mounting fear in her chest, the way her breath hitches and her throat constricts every time she thinks about Peter and what may be happening to him.

 _God, he better be alive,_ Gamora thinks. _I still need to berate him for being an idiot after all of this is over._

Swallowing, Gamora closes her eyes and forces herself to think about something else—anything else.

Their cell is small—just a simple square of concrete floor, surrounded by walls and metal rails on one side. Gamora, Rocket, and Drax are mostly unscathed, but they’re still chained and without weapons. Although she can’t see them, Gamora knows guards are waiting outside the door—she can sense them. They’re nowhere near safe at this point.

“God, I’m glad Groot isn’t here,” Rocket mutters. “If he had to be—”

 _“Shh!”_ Gamora hisses. She peeks anxiously through the metal rails, but no guards have appeared. “I don’t think they know about Mantis and Groot,” she whispers to Rocket, hoping no one will overhear. “We have to stay quiet.”

Rocket nods. A serious look crosses his face, for once. Gamora exhales and leans back against the wall again. Maybe, just maybe, they’ll get through this.

Her hopes are crushed when she starts to hear a faint buzzing sound, seemingly emerging from down the hallway.

_Shit._

“What’s going on?” Gamora asks frantically to no one in particular. She struggles to stand, her chained wrists inhibiting her ability to get up. “What are they doing?”

The buzzing increases to a mechanic whirring noise, getting louder and louder until it sounds like the sound the Benetar makes when it’s taking off.

Rocket whips his head sharply toward the cell door. “Oh, no,” he says under his breath.

Drax frowns. “What is it?”

“I—I know that sound, that machine,” Rocket sputters. Gamora’s never seen him quite this agitated. “They—well, y’know, it was used on me—oh man, _really?_ Are they doing _that?”_

“Doing _what?”_ Gamora demands.

“Well, he’s still not screaming,” Drax says, but Gamora can hear the worry building in his voice as well. “Maybe—”

He’s interrupted by a sharp shriek that cuts through the air. As high-pitched as it is, it’s utterly and unmistakably Peter.

“Great, you jinxed it, ya big moron,” Rocket mumbles.

“Alright, time for a plan,” Gamora snaps. “What can we do? How can we stop it? Rocket, you said you know these machines—any ideas on how to stop them?”

He shakes his head solemnly. “If they’re using the same kind as—uh, y’know, the ones I’m familiar with—then they’re nearly indestructible. And I got no ideas on how to get out of here. They took all my bombs.”

Another scream pierces the room.

“Okay, okay—Drax? What about you?”

“I have no ideas either,” Drax replies. “I don’t… I’m not sure on how to get out of this.”

Gamora can feel her heart beating faster and faster, threatening to burst out of her chest. “But we have to do something—right? We can’t just sit here and let him get tortured!”

Drax looks at her sadly. “What can we do?”

Peter’s screaming intensifies, even as the whirring dies down. Finally, the machine noises come to a stop.

The shrieking falters eventually, but Gamora can still hear Peter gasping rapidly from the chambers.

“Are they done?” Rocket whispers tentatively.

As fast as it stopped, the machinery starts back up again. Soon Peter is screaming just as much as before, if not more.

“Dammit. Now _I_ jinxed us.”

Gamora sinks to the floor, hands clamped over her ears, failing to block out the cries of pain. Peter’s screams resonate through the walls, through the cell, into Gamora’s head—consuming her mind and inhibiting her of thinking of anything but _Peter._

 _He’s an idiot,_ Gamora thinks, shutting her eyes tight. _Idiot, idiot, idiot._

The words echo through her mind like a mantra.

_A complete idiot._

She opens her eyes, noticing the tears that are now streaming down her face. Rocket and Drax have wisely averted their gazes, opting instead to stare at the wall, the ceiling, the floor—anywhere but Gamora’s expression.

She can imagine Lan-Mik’s smug face mouthing the words _you’re welcome_ and then attaching Peter to some strange device. She can imagine Peter, his body battered and broken, lying helplessly on the floor while a dozen men with weapons proceed to attack him.

His screams diminish in strength, but they’re still as clear as ever in Gamora’s head.  
Gamora sits there for a few minutes—her hands covering her ears, her mind supplying her with a plethora of unpleasant images—until she senses Rocket moving next to her.

Slowly, Gamora lifts her head to look at him; he’s making his way to the corner of the room.

“What are you…” Gamora clears her throat. “What are you doing, Rocket?”

“Nothing. I mean—I’m checking out these vents, because, well—do you hear something? That noise?”

Gamora glares at him. Peter’s screams have subsided to pained whimpers by now, but she can still hear the anguish and misery laced between them. “Of course I do.”

“No, not that—shit, Gamora, not that. I mean, like, a scraping noise? Coming from the vents? I don’t know, could just be—”

“I hear it too,” Drax declares. “Like the sound of a small animal trying to enter through the vents?”

Narrowing her eyes, Gamora makes her way to Rocket’s side of the room to inspect the vents. Sure enough, a faint, distinct clicking sound, almost like footsteps, can be heard from inside.

“What do you…” Gamora’s eyes widen. “Oh, god. Groot!”

“What?” Rocket snaps.

They watch in horror as vines curl themselves around the vent railing, tugging at it until the metal is unfastened and thrown to the side. Groot’s face blinks back at them, his mouth slowly morphing into a grin at the presence of his family. He tries to raise a vine to wave at them, but the tightness of the vents seems to restrict his ability to move—he’s not exactly a tiny tree in a pot anymore.

Drax grabs his vines—as best as he can, considering the handcuffs around his wrists—and helps him out of the wall. Groot tumbles down from the vents, straightens himself at the last second, and stands up from the floor, smiling brightly.

“I am Groot!”

“What are you _doing_ here?” Rocket demands. “How did you get in?”

Groot points to the vents.

“Well, obviously, the vents, but _why?_ I thought the Kree were smarter than to have vents from the outside! Aren’t they, like, technological geniuses, or something?”

He shrugs.

“Where’s Mantis?” Gamora asks, willing her voice to stay calm.

“I am Groot.”

Drax’s eyes widen. “In the chambers? But the Kree are there! They’ll overpower her!”

Gamora takes Groot’s hand in hers. He frowns at the chains “Groot, do you even know what’s going on? Do you hear the… the sounds? Coming from the chambers?”

He blinks back at her, clueless as ever. Slowly, it seems to dawn on him what she’s talking about—the whimpers and gasps of pain down the hallway still haven’t completely subsided.

“I… am Groot?” His eyes widen in fear.

“No, he’s—he’s fine,” Gamora whispers. “We’re all fine. It’s just… we’re in a tight spot right now, okay? You should go back to the ship.”

“She’s right,” Rocket says, managing to pull his chained hands up with some effort. “It’s not safe here. They don’t even know you exist. If they find ya, Groot…”

He doesn’t have to finish his sentence.

“I am Groot,” he mumbles.

“I know you don’t want to leave us,” Gamora says sympathetically. “But it’s for the best. I promise.”

“I am _Groot!”_

He points to the door, to the chambers outside of their cell.

Drax narrows his eyes. “Groot, if Mantis went to the chambers, then the Kree—the bad men will have found her by now. I’m not sure if she’ll even—”

“I—am— _Groot!”_

Drax opens his mouth to protest again, but Rocket cuts him off. “Wait… I think he’s onto something here. You say she had a plan?”

Groot nods vigorously.

“And she’s coming here to get us?”

“I am Groot!”

“Don’t get your hopes up, Rocket,” Gamora warns.

“No, but—” Rocket falters. He drags himself to the door, peeking out the railing. “It’s stopped. The sounds, they’ve stopped.”

Gamora listens for a minute, realization dawning on her. “You’re right,” she whispers.

“And the guards—we’ve been really loud, they would’ve heard the commotion—don’t you see? She did it! That insect did it!”

Sure enough, the sounds are over. Gamora can’t see the shadows of the guards outside the cell, either.

But there’s another noise—something more solid. _Footsteps,_ Gamora thinks. Someone on their way down the hallway. Someone, very close, making their way toward the cell.

“Groot, get back in the vents,” Gamora whispers harshly. “Rocket, Drax, sit down and act normally.”

“I am Gr—”

_“Now!”_

Silently, Groot uses his vines to lift himself back into the vents. Drax sits and uses his back to block the vent entrance, attempting to cover the wide hole where Groot now hides.

The footsteps slow. She shuts her eyes— _please don’t find Groot_ —she counts the seconds— _please let Mantis be okay_ —she holds her breath— _please let Peter be alive…_

Silence engulfs the room. Gamora opens her eyes—slowly, ever so slowly—and for a moment, she sees Lan-Mik’s ugly, purple face smirking down on her.

Then the moment passes, and Gamora can see clearly again, and it’s Mantis smiling at her, not Lan-Mik.

“Hello!” Mantis exclaims.

Gamora stares at her. Groot jumps to the ground behind her. Rocket gets unsteadily to his feet.

Mantis blinks uneasily and uses a pair of keys—where did she get _those?_ —to unlock the cell door.

“Oh my _god,_ Mantis,” Gamora says, promptly getting to her feet and attempting to hug her friend with her cuffed wrists.

Drax follows suit. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Mantis says after he lets go. “But, um, I think Peter needs some help.”

Gamora curses. “Of course. Do you know where our weapons are so that we can fight the guards?”

“Oh, they won’t be needed,” Mantis says.

Rocket narrows his eyes. “Huh?”

“I mean—you might _want_ them, but the guards are down already.”

“Who did that?” Drax asks. “Groot? Peter?”

“No,” she replies. “I—I did.”

Now it’s Drax’s turn to narrow his eyes. “Really?”

“I—I made them sleep,” Mantis stammers, obviously uncomfortable with the way everyone is staring at her. “I’m sorry—I thought they were enemies—”

“You did great, Mantis,” Gamora says, still in shock. “But… are you sure? There’s gotta be… _hundreds_ of Kree warriors out there.”

She shifts from side to side. “I used my powers to either make them sleep or turn them against each other,” she explains. “Some of them, at least. It’s not—it’s not that important. They’re… they’re dead now.”

“Can you get these cuffs off us, then?” Rocket asks.

Mantis nods, clearly relieved with the change of subject. “Let’s go save Peter.”

 

* * *

 

Five minutes later, they’re outside the chamber Mantis says holds Peter, with their hands unchained and their hope renewed. So far, the only people they’ve seen are bodies unconscious on the ground, but Gamora still feels anxious and vulnerable without her Godslayer. She feels _more_ anxious, however, about finding out what waits for them behind that door, inside Peter’s chamber.

“Here we are,” Mantis says nervously. She takes her keys—she’d explained she stole them from a guard, to which Rocket had promptly whooped—and unlocks the door.

With a great _creak,_ the door swings open, revealing a wide, rectangular room with concrete floors and walls. It’s barren, spare for some engravings on the walls… and Peter.

He’s slumped against the wall, hugging his knees, eyes cast to the floor. He doesn’t seem to notice the Guardian’s arrival—he doesn’t even seem to be awake.

Gamora steps cautiously into the room, the others following behind her. As she makes her way to Peter, she begins to notice more details about the room—like the weapons lined up in the corners, the disturbing images depicted along the walls, and, worst of all, the scarlet blood pooled in the center of the floor.

She notices things about Peter, too. He’s battered and bruised, with blood trickling the side of his forehead and staining his clothes. There’s a large, jagged cut in his shoulder, but other than that, he seems relatively unscathed. Gamora’s heart aches at the sight, but she can’t afford to focus on those things right now—she has to concentrate on helping Peter.

Gamora stalks up to her friend, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“Peter? Are you—”

He whips his head up to face her—and shrieks. It’s the single most heartbreaking sound Gamora has ever heard—blood-curdling and filled with utter despair. She jerks her hand back, terrified.

As soon as it had started, it stops. Peter’s left sitting there, gasping, eyes consumed with fear and confusion. After a few minutes, the fear subsides and he’s able to take a deep breath.

“G—Gamora,” he manages.

“It’s me,” she breathes. “It’s us, Peter, we’re not going to hurt you.”

He nods, clearly not completely registering her words. “I—I’m sorry.”

She takes his hand and gently wraps one arm around him, careful not to jostle him too much. He doesn’t return the embrace.

He’s trembling.

“Don’t be sorry,” Gamora mutters. _Not yet._

She takes Peter’s hand and leads him to the door. “Let’s go,” she calls to the others.

“Will he be… okay?” Mantis asks tentatively.

“I am Gr—”

 _“Now,”_ Gamora snaps, and without further hesitation, they make their way out of the chambers.

 

* * *

 

No one stops them on their way out. No Lan-Mik, no guards, no random Kree warriors. In fact, some people actually spot them, but then open the doors for them and allow them to pass with dazed smiles.

“Wow, didn’t know you were a hypnotist, Mantis,” Rocket snickers.

She frowns. “I am not a hypnotist. Although I did not expect my powers to last as long as they are.”

Peter stays silent the entire way, avoiding everyone’s eyes.

Eventually, they retrieve their weapons and leave the facility. The ship is right where they parked it, untouched and unusually peaceful. As soon as they get inside, Gamora drags Peter to sickbay, ignoring his protests.

He reluctantly sits on the countertop at her command. Gamora gets to work on his wounds, cleaning them out and sterilizing them. There’s nothing life-threatening, but there are cuts and bruises everywhere and all of them seem painful.

“God, what did they do to you?” Gamora mutters.

“Nothing,” he responds immediately. He shrinks under her narrowed eyes. “I mean… they did a few things. Nothing I couldn’t handle.”

Gamora purses her lips but says nothing. She wants to berate him, to chastise him for being so _stupid_ and _arrogant_ as usual, but she knows whatever she says will have no effect on him. He’s stubborn that way, and that’s one thing Gamora regrets about their relationship; despite all her protests, Peter will continue to protect her until the end of time. He’s _told_ her this, and she believes him, because why else would he do such stupid things?

The least Gamora can do is help Peter through this. She knows that this isn’t as bad as the gas he experienced all those months ago. Physical pain is easy to get over—mental pain is harder. But he still needs help and comfort after what those wretched Kree did to him. And maybe, just maybe, Gamora can knock some sense into him regarding the whole _protect-Gamora-and-do-all-the-thinking-later_ thing.

“Rocket said he heard a machine was being used,” Gamora says slowly. “Do you know what he was talking about?”

Peter pulls back.

Gamora gently takes his hand. “I’m sorry,” she says. “You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”

“No, it’s…” he falters. “It’s fine. It was just—uh, some machine that stimulated pain without causing any damage or threatening to take my life. First, they beat me, as you can see… then they turned the machine on, and somehow it was a thousand times worse. But it’s fine. They just used it, for, y’know… endless torture. Won’t ever die from it, so… yeah.”

Peter looks up to her face, his eyes flickering. “I’m fine, Gamora. Really. I’m _glad_ they did it, actually, because that meant they wouldn’t touch you or the others. I had a plan—”

“Oh, did you really?”

“Yeah,” Peter raises his chin. “I did. I sneaked Mantis a message through the transmitter right before they took our stuff. Figured it would take her an hour or so to find us in the building, so I used the time to distract them. Then, of course, Mantis used her kickass skills to bust us out of there, and… here we are. All part of my plan.”

It’s believable.

That doesn’t mean Gamora believes it.

Gamora moves to his shoulder to treat the deep cut. She dabs a Terran antibiotic cream onto it to keep the infection away.

“So, your plan included fake screaming and getting us all worried. Including Groot. You _know_ he still hasn’t recovered from the gas thing, and yet, your plan was to traumatize him even more.”

Peter flinches. “I mean, uh…”

“Look,” Gamora slaps on the lid to the bottle of the antibiotic cream with a _snap._ “I know you want to protect us. I know, it’s in your nature to be _heroic,_ or whatever, but—”

Gamora’s rambling is stopped by the sound of a door creaking open. She turns to the culprit—there, standing in the doorframe, is Groot, his vines shrinking back to their normal length.

“I am Groot?”

“We’re fine, Groot,” Gamora says softly. “I’m just cleaning Peter up. You can come back later if you want.”

He shakes his head. “I am Groot.”

He makes his way across the room, through the assortment of medical equipment and over to the table Peter’s lying on.

Gamora gives Peter a wary look. “You want to help? Alright…”

She lifts Groot up to the table so that he can see him properly—he’s still not tall enough to reach the countertop. Upon seeing Peter’s body, Groot’s expression is immediately subdued. He seems scared, almost… _guilty._

“I… am Groot?”

“Hey,” Peter says, reaching out his hand to take Groot’s vine. “I’m okay, buddy. Just a little scratched up, that’s all.”

“I am Groot…”

“What?” Peter whispers. “Oh no, Groot, it’s not your fault. Of course not. Why would you ever think that?”

Groot sniffs. “I am Groot.”

Shocked, Peter struggles to sit up, wincing at his wounds. As soon as he manages to sit up, he gathers the young sentient tree in his arms.

“There’s nothing to be sorry for, Groot. There was no way for you to come sooner. It was—it was my plan, okay? And it was stupid. I’m sorry. I should’ve distracted them longer, come up with a plan before rushing into things, but I just… I messed up. You shouldn’t be sorry. _I’m_ the sorry one.”

They embrace for a few seconds, Groot clinging on to Peter with every vine in his body. When he finally lets go, Peter smiles at him.

“You did good today. What Rocket told me about crawling through the vents? _Total_ badass.”

When he sees the glare Gamora gives him, he wisely changes his tone. “I mean, ah… maybe don’t do that again. At least not without telling anybody.”

Groot snorts. “I am _Groot.”_

Peter opens his mouth to respond, but Gamora cuts him off. “Alright, time to go. Why don’t you help Drax make a nice dinner in the galley? That’ll help Peter more than anything.”

Groot nods reluctantly and slides down the side of the countertop. Gamora leads him to the door and, after a small wave to Peter, he exits the room.

When he’s gone, and the door is closed, Gamora returns to Peter’s side. He flinches when she caresses his cheek, but after a moment, he closes his eyes and leans into the touch.

“Thank you,” Peter breathes.

Gamora tilts her head. “For what?”

“For…” he hesitates. “For sticking with me, even when I’m an idiot. When I don’t think before I act. When I make the worst decisions… and thank you for coming to save my ass afterward. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“With the way you’re protecting me, I don’t think you’ll ever find out,” Gamora chuckles.

Peter smiles, but it seems distant.

“You really need to stop doing that, though,” Gamora says with a darker tone. She brings out the gauze from a drawer and continues to treat his wounds. “I can’t even count the number of times you’ve done something ridiculous just to try to protect me. You _know_ I can defend myself, Peter. Eventually… I’ll be the one figuring out what it’s like to be without you. All because you can’t—you _don’t_ use your common sense.”

Peter says nothing as Gamora wraps his wrist in gauze, his eyes fixed on the floor.

“I’m sorry, Peter,” Gamora says. “I’m sorry this happened to you. I appreciate your efforts, I really do… but you need to stop being so rash. There are better ways to keep our family safe.”

She leans in to kiss him, relishing his smooth lips and gentle touch. When she pulls back, he’s nodding.

“I… I get it. I deserve everything you’re telling me. And, y’know, if this were a month ago, it would probably go straight over my head, but today…” he hesitates. “I think I understand. I wasn’t lying, y’know.”

Gamora stares at him.

“To Groot. I wasn’t lying—I really am sorry. I realized today that… well, every time I go out there and I do something ‘stupid’ as you call it… I’m not the only one I hurt. Groot’s been messed up ever since that gas thing, I know. And today only made it worse.”

Peter takes a shaky breath and covers her hand with his.

“I love you, Gamora. So much. And although I can’t promise I won’t do something stupid like this again… I will try. And I’m so grateful that you’re always there to help me. Even when you tell me when I’m being a moron. Whatever you do… I know that meeting you was truly the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

Gamora blinks at him. Twice. Three times. She doesn’t really comprehend his words—not entirely.

Then it sinks in.

Gamora lurches forward, one hand cradling Peter’s head and the other gripping his shoulder. She covers his mouth with a passionate kiss and pours out all her love and emotion into it. He seems surprised but responds eagerly, leaning impossibly closer while his hand grasps her hair. His lips are as warm and soft as ever.

When she finally pulls away, they’re both breathless.

Peter looks dazed. “Gamora… what—how…”

“I love you, too,” Gamora breathes, and tightens her grip around him.

“Hey…” Peter tries to say, but for once, he seems to be at a loss for words. His breath is hot against her neck.

“I love you, too,” Gamora repeats. “And I trust you. And I hope you’ll learn from what happened today.”

He nods. “I will.”

Gamora loosens her grip around him.

“Hey, uh… am I healed enough yet? Because… I’m thinking… your bedroom sounds like a good idea right now…”

“You’re definitely not healed.” She gives him another kiss. “Consider it punishment for being an idiot today.”

“What? No, Gamora—you just—”

She lets go of Peter completely and makes her way to the door. “I’ll send Drax to check on you in an hour. You should rest until then.”

“Hey! No fair! You can’t just do that to me and leave—Gamora!”

She ignores him and opens the sickbay door, leaving Peter alone inside. Her lips still tingle from where he kissed her. Gamora makes her way back to the kitchen, smirking, and pretends to not notice the mock puking sounds Rocket makes when she passes by.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mantis is one of the most, if not the most, powerful characters in the MCU. I believe she could use her powers for so much more than just making people sleep and she's definitely the most underrated character in this franchise. Thank you for coming to my ted talk.
> 
> And before anyone says anything: YES I KNOW THIS WAS VERY SIMILAR TO THE LAST CHAPTER. I'M SORRY. I'M LOSING WAY TOO MUCH SLEEP OVER THIS. 
> 
> (well by fandom standards I'm actually pretty average… three am each night is like the norm here I guess). I just have EXAMS and shit guys ugh and of course I keep deleting and rewriting my drafts because I am a smart person with no self-control.
> 
> Anyway… if you want updates on this fic, or anything else really, check out my tumblr [here](http://star_munches.tumblr.com). 
> 
> I'd also just like to say THANK YOU to everyone who's decided to read and give kudos and comment and everything on this thing so far, it really makes me happy! Be sure tune in next week for more creative content (unless I decide to scrap that entire draft and rewrite it too lol). 
> 
> <333


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I regret everything. Also, is it May 3rd yet???

“Mantis! Your turn!”

Mantis extends her hand to Gamora and allows herself to be lifted onto the deck of the Benatar. Once she’s safely onboard, she manages to peer back down at Gamora.

“Hurry!” she calls, and Gamora has no trouble heeding her advice.

The cargo boat she and the rest of the team had been raiding (for  _ intel,  _ not for stealing stuff) had unexpectedly sprung a leak mid-mission, forcing them to retreat to the Benatar. Rocket is piloting the ship while Gamora and Peter help the passengers get to safety. Fortunately, there hadn’t been anyone onboard the cargo ship in the first place, save for the few members of its crew. But the ship is small and it’s sinking fast—far too fast for anyone’s taste.

“Get Groot!” Gamora shouts to Peter beside her. “Last I saw him, he was by the stern!”

Peter nods and dashes off to the back of the ship. Gamora focuses her attention on helping the remaining few crew members.

Drax appears by her side after a few minutes, out of breath. 

“I searched the lower deck. No one is left. Do you need assistance getting the rest of the crew to safety?”

Gamora shakes her head. “I’m fine. Join Rocket and Mantis on the Benatar—they’ll need your help in dealing with the new passengers!”

Drax nods and looks up to Mantis who has her hand extended. He takes it and heaves himself onto the Benatar, using her as support. 

“Good luck, Gamora!” Drax calls from the deck above. 

The cold wind whips Gamora’s hair— _ god,  _ it’s freezing today. She counts the remaining people that need her help—less than half a dozen.  _ Good.  _ She can probably manage to rescue them all in less than five minutes, if nothing goes wrong, of course.

As if on cue, the ship suddenly lurches forward, throwing Gamora off balance. She hits the deck with a  _ smack  _ while other people topple onto her from behind. 

Dizzy and disorientated, Gamora gets to her feet, using the railing of the ship for support. She glances to the middle of the ship and realizes what the problem is.

The entire front deck of the ship is split in half, jagged cuts spanning from one side to the other like spiderwebs. It keeps cracking more and more, showing no signs of restraint.  _ How did this even happen?  _ Did the boat run into an iceberg or something? Whatever the case, the crack just keeps on widening, getting dangerously close to Gamora and the rest of the ship’s passengers.

“Alright, let’s move!” Gamora tells the crew members; they’re currently panicking and screaming with no organization whatsoever. Hastily, she grabs a woman’s waist and hoists her up to the Benatar where Mantis is waiting. 

As Gamora helps the personnel, the gap in the middle of the ship continues to expand. She prays the Peter and Groot have gotten to her side of the ship safely.  _ They’ll be fine,  _ Gamora tells herself.  _ Everything will be fine. _

Finally, Gamora hauls the last passenger onto the Benatar with minimum difficulty. She looks around—Peter and Groot are still nowhere to be found. And the ship is tilting now, the bow of the ship raising higher and higher into the sky. 

She grabs hold of the railing again to keep herself from tumbling down the deck. “Peter! Groot! Where are you?” Gamora calls frantically.

For a moment, there’s silence. The cold, harsh wind snaps in Gamora’s face, her hair flapping wildly in all directions.

Eventually, Peter’s face peeks out from behind a flagpole several meters away, Groot in tow.

“We’re coming!” Peter yells. Gamora watches as they make their way toward her, holding onto the railing for dear life. The angle of the deck is getting steeper now—they must only have minutes until the entire ship tilts completely and sinks to the bottom of the ocean. The cold metal of the railing feels like ice against Gamora’s bare palms.

Finally, the two join Gamora at the foremast. Above them, the Benatar descends to their level. Mantis’ outstretched hand is probably only mere centimeters away, but the gap between the ship and the Benatar is nothing but air and an icy ocean, dozens of meters below.

“Hold on to the foremast,” Gamora orders. “Groot goes first. We probably only have minutes until—”

Suddenly, the ship lurches back even further. Spare objects tumble down the deck. Peter loses his grip on the railing, but Gamora grabs the collar of his jacket before he can skid down the side of the ship. 

“Thanks,” Peter mutters once he regains his bearings. “Okay—Groot, onboard, now!”

Groot uses his vines to extend a hand to Mantis while Gamora keeps him from falling down. At this point, the ship is almost upright enough for them to be hanging from the railings without the deck for support. 

Gamora’s upper arm muscles scream with effort and exhaustion. They’re literally hanging from the side of the boat as it tilts completely and sinks even further into the water. As strong as Gamora may be, she can’t hold on forever. And Peter has even less time. 

Eventually, Groot is hoisted up to the Benatar.  _ Good _ —that’s one less person to worry about. As soon as he’s safe, Gamora helps Peter crawl onto the front of foremast so that they’re no longer hanging from the railings. His face is contorted with effort and his cheeks are rosy from the cold, but their work is far from finished—they still need to get out of this alive.

“Peter—you go first!”

He looks at her in confusion. “What? No, Gamora, it’s fine—”

The ship creaks, a terrible screeching noise resonating through the ocean. Gamora looks down and  _ oh god _ —the water is so much closer than she’d assumed. She’d thought they had minutes, but in reality, they only have  _ seconds  _ until the entire boat is submerged. Flecks of ice glimmer in the ocean below, proving that a dip in the water  _ really  _ isn’t that pleasant in these conditions.

“Gamora?”

She looks up to Peter. “You have to go first.”

“Gamora, just listen—”

_ “Go!”  _ she cries. 

The icy water draws ever nearer. Begrudgingly, Peter obliges and accepts Mantis’ hand from above.

“Hurry!” Mantis shouts, pulling Peter up to the Benatar’s deck. Gamora holds onto the foremast for dear life, but the cold is making her movements more sluggish and the water is  _ still coming closer.  _

“Gamora!”

Peter’s cries sound like they’re coming from miles away even though they’re just above her. Gamora tries to contort her body to hang from the foremast without falling off, but without Peter’s support, the task becomes a thousand times harder.

“Gamora,  _ please,  _ just grab my hand—”

Slowly, Gamora manages to raise her hand into the sky. Now, she’s suspended by the foremast, one arm supporting all her weight. She feels something cold and calloused grab her hand— _ it’s Peter,  _ the back of Gamora’s mind tells her but she doesn’t understand it—and she tries to grip it but her fingers won’t work. She tries again— _ why won’t her stupid fingers work? _ —but to no avail.

Peter shouts something about  _ Rocket  _ and  _ steer the ship lower.  _ His fingers squeeze Gamora’s—a gentle touch, a reminder of warmth in the midst of all this chilliness—before they slip out from her grasp completely.

Something freezing cold hits Gamora’s back and she gasps, her arm slipping from around the foremast. It takes her a split second to understand why everything is cold and murky and weird before she realizes— _ she’s underwater.  _

Panicking, Gamora kicks upwards with her legs—but the cold is slowly taking over, and a strange numbness is spreading from her feet to the rest of her body. The vortex the sunken ship has created drags her down, further and further, twisting her body in all sorts of directions. Gamora finds herself losing the strength to fight, to do anything at all, and she can’t breathe, and she’s  _ so cold,  _ and her eyelids are getting heavier and heavier… 

The last thing she remembers doing is willing her body mods to  _ keep her warm  _ and _ use the reserve oxygen stored in her systems  _ before the darkness overtakes her completely.

 

* * *

 

When Gamora comes to, she doesn’t really understand what’s going on.

She opens her eyes—they throb painfully when she does so, for whatever reason—but her vision is murky and distorted, like looking through a pair of glasses that haven’t been cleaned in eons. Taking a deep breath, Gamora tries to compose herself—but she can’t breathe, there’s no oxygen and her mods are blocking her airways to keep her from inhaling water. 

She searches her emergency oxygen storage ( _ isn’t she supposed to have reserve air for this sort of situation?) _ ; it’s empty. She’s used all her air, and she’s trying to kick upwards with her legs but now she can’t tell which direction is up and which is down. Although the water is freezing, Gamora’s skin is hot to the touch.  _ It’s the mods,  _ her mind supplies, but she doesn’t really comprehend it. The only thing Gamora can comprehend is that she’s running out of time—she can’t see the surface—and now, for whatever reason, there’s a pair of strong arms wrapped around her waist.

Startled, Gamora tries to turn around to face the culprit, but now the arms are pulling her up and away from the bottom of the ocean. She catches a glimpse of the face—it’s not a face, it’s a mask—and goddammit, Gamora  _ knows  _ that mask. It’s Peter’s—but what is  _ he  _ doing here, at the bottom of this freezing ocean? He’s not supposed to be here—he doesn’t have mods that’ll keep him warm like Gamora does—Terrans have very low tolerance for cold, Gamora  _ knows  _ this. They  _ both  _ know this. And yet, here he is, pulling her away from the bottom of the sea.

Finally, Gamora spots the light coming from the surface. She knows she’s running out of time; it’s been less than a minute and she can’t hold her breath any longer. Just when she thinks it’s over— _ she’s out of time, she’s out of time, she’s going to die here in Peter’s arms _ —Gamora gives one final kick upwards.

Her head breaks the surface.

Immediately, a cold breeze collides with her face. Gamora coughs—gasping for breath, for life, for anything. She inhales the salty ocean air, the oxygen filling her lungs and clearing her mind. She’s never been this thankful for her body mods in her entire life. 

As Gamora breathes, relishing the sweet scent of ocean air, she takes a moment to study her surroundings. There’s a large vessel above her head that vaguely resembles the Benatar and the water around them is littered with scraps from the fallen cargo vessel. There’s also miscellaneous chunks of ice floating everywhere, varying in shapes and sizes. Gamora frowns.  _ Can normal beings without mods even survive in temperatures this low? _

Peter’s arms around her waist loosen. She turns around to face him again—but he’s still underwater.

_ Huh. That’s strange. _

His arms slip further away from her body. Panicking, Gamora grabs his shoulders and hoists him up into the air. 

His head breaks the surface, but he doesn’t gasp or inhale like Gamora had. In fact, he doesn’t appear to be breathing at all.

_ Oh, no. Oh, no, no, no. _

Frantically, Gamora deactivates his mask and brings her hand to the side of his neck—he has a pulse, thank god. It’s faint and weak, but it’s there. But his chest isn’t rising or falling. He’s not breathing. 

_ He’s not breathing. _

Upon closer inspection, Peter’s lips are almost completely blue. His skin is ice cold to the touch.  _ What can Gamora do? Is it really  _ that _ cold in the ocean? _

Gamora looks up to the Benatar in the sky and screams. She screams and shouts and hollers at the top of her lungs, hoping—no,  _ praying _ —that Rocket’s cybernetically enhanced hearing will pick up on it.

It feels like an eternity, but in reality, it must’ve only been seconds before the Benatar  _ finally  _ swoops down and beams the pair up. Gamora’s screams die down as she becomes suspended in mid-air by the beam. She frantically shakes Peter’s body— _ please, wake up _ — _ please, breathe! _ —but his body remains as lifeless as a rag doll.

Gamora screams again, but this time, it’s not to catch her team’s attention.

Hanging limply in mid-air as the ship beams them up, his skin tinted blue, his body as cold as ice… 

The words have been displayed in Gamora’s mind in bold letters for the last minute, but they don’t really sink in until that moment.

_ Peter’s not breathing.  _

The latch door to the Benatar opens, spilling a hysterical Gamora and a lifeless Peter onto the cold, metal floor.

 

* * *

 

Gamora’s trying to save Peter’s life.

_ Trying,  _ more like  _ failing,  _ because  _ of course  _ Gamora can’t remember one of the most basic forms of life-saving known throughout the galaxy  _ (curse you, Thanos, for only teaching how to take lives instead of how to save them).  _

But she’s trying, she has her hands on his chest and she’s compressing—up, down, up, down. How many compressions is she supposed to do? Ten? Twenty? Thirty? Gamora doesn’t remember,  _ can’t  _ remember, simply releases her hands from his chest, pinches his nose, and connects his lips with hers.

One breath. Two.

His lips are freezing. But at least— _ thank god _ —his chest is rising and falling from the ventilation. 

But when she stops breathing for him, his chest stops rising and falling and she has to give him more compressions. She senses Drax and Mantis and the passengers of the cargo ship watching her, she hears Groot crying in the background and Rocket soothing him in a hushed voice, but she can’t focus on that because she  _ has to save Peter.  _

Is she pressing too hard? Not hard enough? She doesn’t want to break any of his bones or damage any of his systems— _ oh, fuck that, Gamora _ — _ just focus on saving his life! _

Once again, she gives him more breaths. His chest rises and falls.

Gamora stops breathing for him and watches, her trepidation rising. He needs to breathe. His chest  _ needs  _ to rise now, because if it doesn’t, then it means that the treatment isn’t working, and if it isn’t working then Peter can’t be saved and if Peter can’t be saved then—

For a moment, nothing happens.

Then, finally, after what feels like an eternity… Peter gasps.

His chest rises.

His chest falls.

He’s breathing, his heart is beating and his pulse is stronger, and his eyes aren’t open but it’s fine because he’s breathing and he’s alive and Gamora  _ can’t actually believe it. _

For a moment, Gamora is suspended in a state of haziness— _ is this real? _ Is she truly this lucky, or is it a figure of her imagination? Are they really both alive, or is Gamora lifeless at the bottom of the ocean and Peter frozen into a block of ice?

Then Peter coughs in front of her, opening his eyes ever so slowly, trembling violently—and all thoughts of confusion or haziness are wiped clean from her mind.

Gamora engulfs him in a soul-crushing hug, tears streaming freely down her face. For once, she doesn’t mind that the others are watching. She doesn’t mind that there are strangers in this room, random people off a cargo ship they’d just happened to save. All Gamora cares about is that Peter is  _ alive  _ and he’s  _ here  _ and not frozen to death at the bottom of the ocean.

Peter looks up into her eyes. “G—G—Gamora?”

His teeth chatter vigorously, his lips tinted blue. He still has that Terran illness, hypothermia, no doubt. Which means he’s still in danger of dying.

Gamora gives him one more embrace, burying her face in his cold neck. She hears the way his breath hitches, senses his arms struggling to return the embrace.

“Shh,” Gamora breathes. “Let’s… let’s get you warmed up.”

She stands up and offers Peter a hand. For a moment, he simply stares at it, confused—until he takes it and shakily manages to get to his feet. With Gamora’s help, he is able to make his way to the ship’s bathroom. In the back of her mind, Gamora vaguely recognizes Groot calling after them, crying and confused—but she can’t focus on him right now. 

Peter is clinging onto her for support, his whole body shuddering with violent tremors. His throat makes awful sounds when he inhales, like it pains him just to take in more oxygen. His skin is still blue and there are flecks of ice coating his hair.

_ But he’s alive. _

Peter is breathing.

Peter is alive.

 

* * *

 

As soon as they reach the bathroom, Peter collapses.

Fear strikes Gamora again—cold and sharp like an icicle, consuming every fiber of her being—but when she reaches down to check his vitals, everything seems okay.

Gamora lets out a sigh of relief. “Don’t do that to me, Peter,” she mutters under her breath.

“S—sorry,” Peter stammers. “C—can’t move—”

Taking pity on him, Gamora brings her hand up to caress his cold cheek. “Let’s get you in the hot shower, okay?”

As Gamora strips him of his ice-covered clothing, Peter starts to shiver even more vigorously. But through his chattering teeth, he looks into her eyes, a slow smile spreading on his face.

“N—not even g—gonna take me t—to dinner first?” 

Gamora rolls her eyes playfully—but inside, she’s never been more relieved. 

_ He’s making jokes.  _

He’s Peter again; that immature, arrogant, sweet, sensitive loser she fell in love with in the first place.

“Come on,” Gamora says, gently hoisting Peter up from the ground. “You’ll be much warmer after you take a shower. Maybe your jokes will get better too.”

Peter manages a weak laugh. But when Gamora lightly motions for him to step into the shower cubicle, he stops dead in his tracks.

“Wait.”

Gamora raises her eyebrows. “What is it?”

He looks like he does when he tries to recall a distant memory or a forgotten legend from his homeworld. His face contorts into an expression of confusion, then realization slowly spreading across his features.

Gamora puts a tentative hand on his bare shoulder. “Peter?”

“I can’t—I can’t go in the shower,” he sputters.

She furrows her brow. “Why not?”

“Something my m—mother t—taught me,” he says. “Back in—in Missouri. One t—time I fell in a l—lake in the winter and—and I got hypo—hypother—whatever this thing is called,” he manages, obviously frustrated at his stuttering. “She t—taught me that I shouldn’t t—touch any hot water. I think it can st—stop my heart or something.”

“What?” Gamora’s eyes widen. “How can—I mean, are you sure?”

He nods weakly.

_ How is she supposed to warm him up now? _

“What else do you… remember?”

“Um—” he coughs violently into his fists. “She—she said I can dr—drink a hot beverage? Not scalding, or—or anything, but I remember I had hot ch—chocolate…”

Gamora takes a deep breath. “So… should I cover you in blankets while you sip hot chocolate? Is that fine?”

Again, Peter nods. “Can I put some clothes on, now?” he whispers. “It’s really,  _ really  _ cold.”

 

* * *

 

By the time Peter is fully clothed and wrapped in several blankets, Rocket has come to Gamora to tell her that all the cargo ship crew members are now safely returned to land. 

“Bunch of idiots,” Rocket had muttered. “Kept asking,  _ oh, when are you gonna return us, we have families, this ship is small and disgusting,  _ like they didn’t even  _ care  _ we saved their lives and almost died for them. We should’ve left ‘em on the boat.”

Meanwhile, Peter slowly recovers from the cold. He sits in their bed, wrapped in half a dozen blankets, fingers tightly clutching a semi-warm cup of chocolate.

When he turns to face Gamora, she can’t suppress a smile from making its way across her face—he just looks so adorable, sitting there, covered in blankets like a baby.

Besides… the sight of him breathing  _ at all  _ is enough to keep her smiling for the rest of time. 

But his health isn’t increasing as much as Gamora would like it to. Although she combed the ice from his hair and removed his frost-covered garments, there’s still a stammer in his voice that he can’t seem to recover from. 

Plus… earlier, Gamora had noticed that there are bruises on his chest from where she’d performed compressions on it. Peter doesn’t remember it—of course, he doesn’t, he’d been unconscious—but when she’d accidentally touched his ribs, he’d winced visibly. He’d downplayed his injuries, as usual, but his voice had been strained and his eyes had been cloudy with pain.

Gamora is worried that she’d actually done major damage on one or more of his ribs or his chest. It wouldn’t be surprising if she had—she’d been pressing pretty hard, after all—but if it’s true, then they might have to bypass Peter’s  _ no hospital  _ rule and get him the care he needs.

Besides. Peter is recovering from hypothermia. He’d almost  _ died,  _ might even have been considered legally dead for a minute or so. Broken bone or not…

Yeah, their next stop is going to have to be a hospital.

“Hey, G—Gamora?”

Peter’s voice sends her out of her thoughts. 

She puts a hand on his shoulder. “Yes?”

“Oh, um…” he falters. “I was wondering if—if I could see the others and tell them that I’m fine b—before they go to bed? C—cause I’m pretty sure Groot was upset… I—I don’t really remember, but—”

“Peter, the most important thing for you to do right now is to get some rest,” Gamora chides, rubbing circles into his back. “As long as you have hypothermia, you are unwell.”

“It won’t be long.” He gazes into her eyes with a pout, that  _ damn  _ pout. “Please, Gamora? Just to say hi?”

The fact that Peter managed to not stammer at  _ all  _ in that last sentence proves how much he wants this. But he’s injured. And Gamora will  _ not _ succumb to his adorable pouty eyes. 

_ She won’t. _

“If it’s really that important, then I can tell them myself,” Gamora decides, planting a kiss on his cheek. “You stay here and warm yourself up.”

Peter sighs. “Well… at least I tried.”

Gamora smirks, removes her hand from his shoulder, and leaves the room.

 

* * *

 

Gamora finds the rest of the team in the common area, everybody talking in hushed voices. The conversations come to a halt, however, as soon as she steps into the room. 

For a moment, no one says anything. Then, an overjoyed cry of  _ I am Groot!  _ springs from the young tree’s mouth, followed by a massive hug for Gamora.

_ “I am Groot!” _

Gamora smiles through the embrace. “Hey, there, Groot. Yeah, I’m okay.”

Groot pulls back, his joyful expression morphing into something more unsure and apprehensive. “I am… Groot?”

“Peter will be fine, too,” she replies, “with time. You have nothing to worry about.”

Mantis steps up to her next and extends her arms. “May I?”

Hesitantly, Gamora obliges, and soon Mantis has her wrapped in another massive embrace. “We’re all very happy you’re both okay!” 

After the hectic events of today, first with the mission, then the boat sinking, and then the dramatic attempts to save Peter’s life… Gamora hadn’t really been focusing on  _ herself  _ and her  _ own  _ near-death experience. She’d been more focused on saving Peter—obviusly. But hearing Mantis say those words… it reminds her that she hadn’t been the only one close to losing someone today. 

“So am I, Mantis,” Gamora whispers as she pulls back. “So am I.”

“But we’re not gettin’ payed for our mission today,” Rocket says, crossing his arms. “So rude of our employers. Like, we risk our lives, you ‘n Quill almost  _ die,  _ we save  _ everyone  _ on the friggin’ boat and they still won’t pay us. ‘S not our fault the ship broke and millions of units worth of supplies sank into the sea! They should’ve used a spacecraft—everyone knows they’re better!”

Gamora raises her eyebrows. “Rocket…” 

“Yeah, yeah,” he mumbles. “I guess I’m glad you’re alive too, or whatever.”

“Although I am upset over our lack of money, I’m more concerned about Quill’s state of health,” Drax cuts in. “You said he was getting better?”

“Soon,” Gamora says. “But… I think we should stop at a hospital that treats Terrans. For good measure.”

“Why?” Rocket asks. “I mean, if Star-Munch is that much trouble, shouldn’t you have just left him in the ocean?”

Gamora glares at him. “Peter’s not that much trouble—his heart  _ stopped,  _ Rocket, he’s not going to magically heal overnight.” She crosses her arms, sighing. “He’s downplaying his pain—you know how he hates hospitals—but I think this is something he has to do.”

“I am Groot.”

“Exactly,” Gamora smiles. “Then he’ll be back to normal.”

Drax grunts. “We didn’t think he’d make it, seeing as his tolerance for low temparature is so low.”

“Yeah…” Gamora falters. “Y’know, next time you see he’s about to do something stupid like that, you’ve got to stop him.”

Mantis raises her eyebrows in surprise. “Stop him? But he saved you! He said he was on his way to save you, and then a minute later, you both emerged from the water alive!”

“He didn’t save—” Gamora hesitates, thinking back to the water and Peter’s arms around her and her thoughts of hopelessness and death. “Okay, maybe he  _ helped  _ me. I could’ve made it out on my own, though. Thing is, he made a  _ really  _ dumb decision by jumping into the water without even putting on an insulated suit.”

“I don’t know if it can be helped,” Drax says darkly. “I would know—I had a family for many years. It’s just in one’s instincts to protect the ones they love.”

Gamora ponders this for a moment. They’re right; Peter was just doing what was natural for him, and that’s risking his life for his loved ones. It warms her heart that Peter does this—he’s always done this, even after they just met—but… still.

Gamora’s stubborn.

She won’t admit that she would’ve done the same.

She won’t accept that he’s right.

He’s not right, because he  _ risked his life  _ when it would’ve taken mere  _ seconds  _ to put on an insulated suit and not get sick from the cold. He’s not right, because it’s the same  _ goddamn pattern  _ each time—he could’ve waited to make a plan before he volunteered for torture from the Kree. He could’ve allowed Gamora to keep fighting through the pain of her broken leg instead of getting a grenade thrown at him. He could’ve done  _ so much _ to keep himself safe while he risked his life for others—and yet, he didn’t.

And yet, he won’t.

“I’ll have to talk to him,” Gamora says, resolute. “It’s a learned habit. He can unlearn it.”

Drax sends her a look—what is that, sympathy? Pity? Gamora doesn’t have time to determine what he’s thinking because then there’s a soft weight on her foot and several vines wrap around her leg.

“I am Groot?”

Gamora gently pats his shoulder—it still shocks her how tall he’s been getting—and manages a weak smile.

“You’ll be the first person I tell when he gets better. I promise.” 

At the very least, Gamora is glad that the day’s events got Groot in action again. Ever since Peter offered him that damn video game, he’s been playing it non-stop. It’s only getting worse. The fact that Groot even cares at  _ all  _ is shocking and refreshing for the entire team.

Maybe the team should get serious, life-threatening injuries more often.

Giving Groot one more caress, Gamora turns to Rocket with a newfound determination. “Don’t forget about that hospital.”  
  


* * *

 

When Gamora returns to their room, Peter is sitting on the bed, blankets still covering every inch of his body except for his face. A weak smile spreads on his face as soon as Gamora walks in, his eyes glimmering with contentment.

“What is it?” she asks softly as she untucks the covers of the bed.

He shakes his head. “Nothing. Just—uh… thanks for takin’ care of me, like… all the time.”

Gamora smirks and pats his side of the bed. “Come here.”

They’re both still fully clothed when they climb in, but it’s probably for the better—it’s more heat for Peter, anyway. As soon as he’s under the covers, Gamora enfolds him with her arms. He sighs a little in her embrace, the tension and stress flowing out of his muscles all at once.

“You’ve stopped stuttering and shivering so much,” she observes. “That’s good.”

“Yeah…”

“Of course, none of this would’ve happened in the first place if you hadn’t jumped in after me.”

She can feel his body tense up again, all his muscles preparing for a fight. 

“Gamora…”

“I just don’t understand, Peter. Why would you do that?”

He hesitates. “I saw you go in, and I couldn’t….”

She shakes her head. “No. You  _ could’ve  _ thought it through. You  _ could’ve _ actually worn an insulated suit so that your heart wouldn’t have stopped from the cold!”

“I…” he falters. “I mean, I’m alive now. Isn’t that good enough?”

“Look,” Gamora says, sighing. “I’m absolutely  _ overjoyed  _ that you’re alive. I don’t know what I would’ve done if you hadn’t made it. But that’s the thing—it  _ really  _ shouldn’t have gotten that close! You should’ve been more careful! I can’t even  _ count  _ the number of times something like this has happened. It needs to stop!”

“Gamora—”

“The thing is, after everything that’s happened, with the gas and then the Kree all those months ago—I really thought you’d change. You promised you would. You promised! And yet…”

Gamora falters, feeling tremors convulse his body once again.

“. . . Peter? Are you cold again? Are you—”

“I’m—I’m sorry,” Peter breathes.

His body trembles even more, and, in horror, Gamora realizes that it’s not from the cold. It’s not from the lack of oxygen. 

Gently, Gamora turns over Peter to his other side so that she can face him—tears are already trickling down his face.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats, his voice barely above a whisper. “I just—I saw the boat collapse—I saw you fall in, and—”

Silent, terrible sobs rack his body and he shuts his eyes, tight. Unsure of what to do, Gamora simply holds him tighter and tangles her fingers into his hair.

Peter swallows. “The water was—was pulling you in and you weren’t coming back up. You weren’t coming back up and the current was so strong and  _ god,  _ Gamora, I just wanted to find you—I thought you’d  _ died _ —”

The tension in his shoulders and the rest of his body just sort of evaporates all at once as he collapses in front of her, tears streaming freely down his face now. His expression is heart-breaking, but not unfamiliar—he’s cried before, many, many times, but not like  _ this _ —and his tears are wetting Gamora’s shirt.

“I thought you were dead,” Peter croaks. “I just… forgot about your mods and how they’ll keep you warm and stuff. And I’m sorry for… for being stupid. As usual. But— _ god _ —I can’t believe you’re here right now, Gamora—I swear, I never meant to make it worse for you…”

“Hey,” Gamora whispers softly, bringing her hand down from his hair to caress his cheekbone. “I’m sorry, too. I didn’t realize… how much… I mean, I was just thinking about myself…”

He shakes his head. “Don’t be sorry. God, Gamora, don’t be… don’t be sorry.”

Peter takes a deep breath—in through the nose, out through the mouth. She recognizes methods—he, as with everyone else on this team, is well-versed on the practice of composing oneself after a breakdown.

His eyes hold a million emotions, a lifetime’s worth of pain, loss, and grief—but also a newfound hope, and love, and meaning.

“Gamora, I swear—you can berate me, and chide me, call me an idiot for the rest of time—I don’t care. I really don’t care, as long as you’re with me and not—y’know—”

Gamora silences him with a finger to his lips. “I know.” 

She replaces her finger with lips of her own, gently brushing them upon Peter’s. 

“I know.”

She gazes into Peter’s emerald eyes—and although there’s redness surrounding them, although they’re puffy and bloodshot from crying—they’re just as benevolent and loving as ever, igniting a fire in her that slowly spreads from her abdomen to the rest of her body. 

Gamora tentatively reaches out her hand again, brushing away the last tears. As if on cue, Peter leans forward and softly captures her lips with his. 

His lips are cold.

When he pulls back, she strokes his cheek. 

Maybe she understands, Gamora thinks to herself. Maybe, if she were in his position, she would’ve done something similar. But at that moment, with Peter in her arms, as they escape the events of the day—Gamora realizes just how  _ much  _ they mean to each other. How much they make each other feel, how much they save each other from their terrible pasts and ruined childhoods. How much they love each other, and how much their lives would honestly and truly  _ suck  _ without each other. 

She wants to voice this to Peter, to make him understand that she feels the same way—but she opts to keep it to herself instead. There’s no point, anyway—because sure, they live dangerous lives, and sure, a genocidal mad purple titan with a personal score to settle with the Guardians may or may not be on their trail—but it’s fine. They’ll survive. They’ve each thrown themselves in all kinds of stupid situations with slim chances of survival, and yet, here they lay, almost completely unscathed.

Okay, sure, Peter is recovering from hypothermia, Gamora might’ve broken a bone while performing chest compressions, and there may or may not be something wrong with her mods after she willed them into overdrive because,  _ damn, her body’s getting really got _ —but still. Unscathed.

There’s a lot of things to be said that lie unspoken between them, but that’s okay because they love each other and they know that. No, it’s not some  _ unspoken thing _ —the thing between them is very much spoken, at this point—it’s something more than that. Deeper. Harsher. And it comes with much greater consequences. She’s not sure how to put it into words—but that’s okay. It’s unspoken, after all. Not all unspoken things have to be acted upon.

Gamora’s not sure what either of them would do if they lose each other. Would Peter fall apart? Would  _ Gamora  _ fall apart? She likes to think that she wouldn’t, especially since she’ll well-trained in the art of losing the people she loves the most—but the events of today beg to disagree. 

_ Whatever.  _ It’s not as if either one of them is going to have to go through this anytime soon.

_ Right? _

It doesn’t matter. For now, they’re enveloped in each other’s arms, sharing body heat (or  _ lack of,  _ in Peter’s case). For now, they can rest peacefully on a ship filled with the people they love the most, fully aware that the dangers of the day are behind them and in the past.

For now, they have each other. And that’s enough.

Gamora places her hand on Peter’s chest. He winces slightly at the contact, his shoulders tensing in pain. 

She smiles uneasily. “Y’know… we really need to get you to a hospital.”

He pouts but doesn’t meet her eyes.

“Peter… you’ve had hypothermia, I probably broke your ribs… your heart  _ stopped  _ for god’s sake!”

“Okay, okay, fine,” Peter relents. He gazes into her eyes. “But just this once.”

He takes her hand in his, intertwining their fingers ever so carefully. Slowly, he brings her hand to his face and presses a soft kiss to it.

“I love you,” Peter murmurs, his voice muffled by her hand.

Gamora smiles. “I love you, too.”

His lips are cold.

But it’s okay.

Besides, Gamora will have all the time in the world to warm those lips with ones of her own. 

_ … right? _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right? :)
> 
> Last chapter will be up next week. I'm guessing most of you already know what it's gonna be… spoilers in the tags lmao
> 
>  
> 
> Anyway, thanks for reading! Comments and kudos are truly amazing! <3


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late chapter! I had a draft completed last week, but then my computer started messing up and all the changes I'd made to the document weren't saved. So I had to start from scratch. :)
> 
> In all honesty, this was a little rushed and became very confusing, very fast. Just hang in there. We'll get through this. Sorry in advance.
> 
> Also, the song used at the beginning is Just the Way You Are by Billy Joel.
> 
> Anyway, here's to my last ~~failure of a~~ chapter! :)

Gamora is falling.

_She’s falling._

The wind strikes her back sharply, a biting cold impacting her body at full force. Her movements feel weird and disconnected as she flails in midair.

Thanos’ blurry silhouette— _goddammit, Thanos_ —looms over the mountaintop, no doubt watching her fall to her death. She can imagine how he looks—the tears that roll down his face, the sadness he so _vehemently swears_ to be filled with.

So Gamora screams, not for the fear—she’s not scared of death, never has been. She screams for _his_ fear. _Maybe it’ll haunt him in his nightmares._

Oh, who is she kidding? Thanos never has nightmares.

Gamora screams, and screams, and screams—but it’s not loud enough, and she can’t tell if she’s still falling or if she’s hit the ground yet—she just screams.

_She’s falling._

Gamora’s screams quickly die down as she falls, her voice withering away.

There are so many things Gamora wishes for—a better life, a chance to see her family again, a chance to say goodbye. A chance to see Peter again, just one more time, and make sure he _understands_ —this isn’t his fault. He can’t blame himself for not saving her, because it’s _impossible_ —and besides. He kept his promise. Gamora loves him _so much_ for that.

None of this is his fault.

_She’s falling._

How much time does she have left? A few seconds?

The wind is sharp and bitter against her skin, the cold lapping at every inch of her body; and yet, Gamora finds herself to be eerily calm.

She can’t apologize to Peter or the rest of the Guardians, nor can she reassure them of anything. She only has herself, and her mind, and this cursed mountain.

_She’s falling._

And so, as the ground approaches her, Gamora prays—for the universe, for the Soul Stone or whatever majestic, immortal being controls her fate—to spare her some mercy. Let her see her family again, even if it isn’t real, even if it’s just an illusion.

_She’s falling._

Gamora closes her eyes.

All around her, the world transforms.

 

 

* * *

 

The first thing Gamora notices is the warmth.

No longer is she surrounded by cold wind of Vormir, nor the harsh emptiness Thanos’ ship has always enclosed. No, where she is now, it’s warm; the air is warm, the environment is warm, the song playing faintly in the background is warm, the arms wrapped around her waist are warm.

She recognizes Peter next, his gentle touch familiar and assuaging. She knows the song that’s playing—it’s one of the newer ones from his Zune that Gamora has eventually come to enjoy. Peter’s smile is warm, making her heart flutter.

Hesitantly, Gamora pries her eyelids open with some difficulty.

There’s a voice in the back of her mind—whispering _this isn’t real_ and _you’re dying alone without Peter and everyone else_ —but for now… all Gamora can do is get lost in Peter’s eyes.

There’s something so tender and tentative about his touch, like he’s allowing her an escape at any given moment. There’s nothing expected of Gamora as they slowly sway to the music streaming from the earbuds they share. Peter keeps his hands firmly wrapped around her waist, never straying, never going too far for Gamora’s taste.

Peter has never forced her to do anything she’s not comfortable with, another detail about him that somehow makes Gamora trust him more and more. Sure, when they _first_ met, Peter had been slightly more arrogant… but still. When they’re in public, he downplays it, but now that they’re alone, in Peter’s room on the Quadrant, music trickling through his earbuds… Gamora had never imagined him to be such a gentleman.

Sighing, Gamora readjusts her grip on Peter’s shoulders. The music changes to something even softer, a newer song Gamora hasn’t gotten enough time to learn properly.

But it’s fine, because they’ve only spent a year together on this ship, and as Peter once had told her when he was drunk, _he wouldn’t leave anyone in this crew for anything in the world._

(Well, except Rocket. Peter had said he’d leave Rocket.)

Gamora still feels awkward and vulnerable in these types of situations, even after all these months. Sure, she still has weapons on her—of course she does, she’d never leave her bed without one—but… there’s a specific sense of _vulnerability_ in dancing that can’t be fought off with a sword, and it makes her nervous.

Gamora thinks that she has never cared particularly much what people think about her—being a galaxy-renowned assassin can do that to a person—but with Peter, everything she _thinks_ about herself is flipped upside down. Suddenly, she’s nervous about her dancing skills. Suddenly, she’s stressing over whether her grip is too tight, and prays to _god_ she doesn’t subconsciously leave bruises one Peter’s shoulder’s so that he never invites her to dance again.

Suddenly, she’s overly conscious of their close proximity; how his face is inches away from hers; how, if she focuses hard enough, she can feel his heart beating: steady, if not slightly fast-paced, definitely strong and healthy.

_Ba-boom._

_Ba-boom._

_Ba-boom._

“Never thought I’d live to see the day,” Peter says, breaking the comfortable silence. “Y’know—you, in my room, music playing, _willingly_ dancing with me.”

Gamora rolls her eyes playfully. “Don’t celebrate so early, Quill. I still have half a dozen weapons hidden on me at the moment.”

He smirks. “Only half?”

She suppresses a smile.

Everything about this—his easygoing attitude, his good-natured remarks, his careful embrace… Gamora finds herself struggling to relax, to let herself enjoy it and not flee in a moment of self-doubt and uncertainty. She wants to embrace the moment, celebrate this minute of happiness in the midst of a never-ending cycle of pain, but she doesn’t know _how._

_Has she ever?_

Peter seems to sense her uncertainty because his grip loosens, ever so slightly, allowing her an escape. But Gamora won’t give up so easily. She _can’t,_ not after all this effort she’s put through to open herself up to him and the others, to truly embrace the meaning of the word _team._

Gamora tightens her hold around his neck, willing him to stay.

Peter’s muscles eventually relax as well, returning to swaying along to the tempo of the music. Softly, he hums to the melody under his breath.

 _I wouldn't leave you in times of trouble_ _  
_ _We never could have come this far…_

“I think… I might actually enjoy this song,” Gamora whispers, finding herself unable to speak her full volume.

Peter’s beam is unmistakable, irresistible—extremely and utterly charming. The way his face brightens and his body perks up with just one sentence is enough to make Gamora’s heartbeat accelerate.

“I know, right? It’s Billy Joel. I was happy to find it on the Zune—haven’t heard it in thirty years.”

Gamora smiles—a small, timid, sincere smile—and gazes into Peter’s eyes. His expression is as caring as ever, igniting a flame in her soul she’s never experienced before.

She can’t look at him—can’t face this. There’s a _thing,_ she _knows_ this—and yet, it’s been weeks since they’d talked about it and Gamora’s found herself unable to address it.

_Some unspoken thing._

She meets Peter’s eyes again—he’s still smiling brightly—and some invisible force pulls her face closer until they’re only inches apart.

“It’s a nice song to dance to,” Gamora murmurs. “Better than that awful… Piño… Colado… song.”

He chuckles softly. “Close enough.”

Peter’s expression is warm and affectionate—his embrace gracious and welcoming—and Gamora finds herself relaxing, finally settling in his arms.

 _I said I love you and that's forever_ _  
_ _And this I promise from the heart…_

Gamora thinks, _she can do this,_ and she’s right because _she can_ —she’s safe and he’s safe and they’re together. He _wants_ to be with her—has wanted it from day one—and Gamora wants him, too, she _knows_ this, _they_ know this…

 _I could not love you any better_ _  
_ _I love you just the way you are…_

There’s no reason to hold back now.

Gamora closes her eyes—exhales, tilts her chin upwards—and brings her face closer, and closer, and closer—

_She can do this._

She doesn’t get the chance.

 

* * *

 

Suddenly, Gamora isn’t dancing with Peter.

The world around her changes like it had before, the ground dissolving and the music fading away as Gamora is brought into another scene entirely.

Gamora is situated on the small sofa in her room, sharpening her assorted collection of blades. Peter is currently out shopping for supplies with Drax and Rocket, and with the chores and daily errands completed, Gamora is left to idly wait for the hours to trickle away.

Not that she minds the spare time—it’s been weeks since she’s had privacy like this. Sure, the team is great, but… Gamora has to admit, any free time she can manage is a blessing. Especially after so many years alone, isolated on Thanos’ ship, with only a few adopted siblings and the genocidal, self-proclaimed ‘father’ as company.

Suddenly, Gamora tenses. Her enhanced hearing picks up on something—a faint rustling, the distinct sound of footsteps tentatively making their way toward the door.

Gamora puts down her blades and sighs. There’s only one person currently on the ship who would walk so hesitantly.

“Come in, Mantis,” she calls, and after a moment of brief uncertainty, the young woman slowly comes into her view.

“Hello,” Mantis says, still shyly clinging to the corner of the room.

Gamora pats the spot next to her on the small sofa. “Have a seat.”

Biting her lip, Mantis accepts the offer. “I just put Groot to sleep,” she proclaims as soon as she’s comfortably seated. “I think the candy he stole from Peter gave him trouble falling asleep.”

Gamora frowns. “Isn’t it a little early for bedtime?”

“Well, it is technically the right time on this planet,” Mantis explains patiently. “But you might not feel that way since it is midday at Xandar. Besides, um—I thought it was a good idea, to let him sleep before the others arrive from their trip.”

She glances at Gamora apprehensively, as if she’s scared the older woman will judge her choices or tell her she’s wrong.

“Good thinking,” Gamora says warmly. Hopefully, that will be enough to assure her.

Mantis offers her a small smile, but she still picks at the fabric of her dress, avoiding Gamora’s eyes.

“Would you like me to put you to sleep, then?”

Gamora blinks. “No… why would I want you to do that?”

The young woman’s smile fades, replacing itself with an expression of nervousness. “Be—because… well, I thought if _you_ thought it was a good idea, then—”

“I know what you mean,” Gamora interrupts. “But… why? I can easily fall asleep on my own.”

“I—I thought—” Mantis stammers. “I just thought… well, I have the power to help you. Why _shouldn’t_ I offer to? Besides, I’m not usually helpful otherwise. Helping people sleep is my… _purpose_ here.”

Gamora shakes her head. “You don’t have to do that for us, Mantis,” she says slowly, making sure to look the woman in the eye to get her point across. “You don’t need a _purpose._ You don’t _have_ to do anything to earn a place in this team.”

Mantis keeps her eyes locked on the ground.

“You keep helping other people sleep,” Gamora says softly. “Do you ever help _yourself_ sleep?”

The girl looks up at her then, an expression of confusion and bewilderment on her face. “I just… I don’t understand,” Mantis whispers. “On Ego’s planet, the only reason I was allowed to stay was because I had a _purpose._ I don’t… I don’t always know why I’m accepted here, because…”

“Because we don’t need your powers as much as he does,” Gamora completes, realization dawning on her. “Mantis, you do understand that we’re a _team,_ yes?”

She nods, her head bobbing up and down.

“Teams stick together,” Gamora states firmly. “We’re not on Ego’s planet anymore. We’re not anywhere _near_ the man that hurt you like that. You’re safe. You deserve just as much as everyone else on this team.”

Mantis smiles. Gamora notices the tears brimming her eyes and gently takes her hand in hers. Some part inside her tells her _you might as well be giving advice for yourself, Gamora_ —but she blocks it out. This isn't about her right now.

“Thank you,” Mantis breathes, raising a shaky hand to wipe the unshed tears in her eyes. “I haven’t… I don’t know exactly what you’re doing, but it makes me… happy.” Her antennae glow softly. “I can see you’re happy, too.”

“It’s called a compliment,” Gamora says. She frowns. _God, four months on this ship and she hasn’t heard a single compliment?_

“I’ve never… experienced this _kindness_ coming from anyone, especially not directed toward me,” she confesses. “I don’t know how to repay you.”

Chuckling, Gamora shakes her head. “You don’t need to do that.”

“Okay.”

Mantis is still smiling brightly, her antennae glowing with happiness radiating from _both_ ladies. Gamora hasn’t seen a smile so wide—a real, _genuine_ smile—on Mantis’ face ever before.

The fact that Gamora can bring that smile, even on such a troubled person like Mantis…

It brings one just as genuine on her face as well.

Gently, Gamora squeezes Mantis’ hand.

She squeezes back.

 

* * *

  


“—y’know? So _that’s_ why it’s not my fault. Quill’s a dumbass—it ain’t nobody’s fault but his own.”

Gamora has to blink a few times to adjust to the sudden change in scenery, yet again. It takes a few seconds for the world to reassemble around her, the molecules forming the very furniture she sits upon. Slowly but surely, Gamora begins to recognize her surroundings.

Rocket sits in the pilot’s chair, ranting about Peter and an argument from earlier, as usual. It seems to be nighttime at the planet they’re docked at; the space displayed through the viewport is as dark as ever, but the usual commotion coming from the hallways is absent, and Rocket’s voice is about half its usual volume. Which, to be completely honest isn’t saying much, but still—it’s nighttime.

Gamora is sitting beside him in the passenger’s chair, idly checking her holo for new missions or updates. Rocket’s rambling makes it hard for her to focus, although she finds herself unable to mind all that much—besides, sometimes, it’s amusing to listen to him rant like this. However, tonight does not seem to be one of those occasions—Gamora had heard his argument with Peter earlier, and somehow it had been even _more_ heated and frenzied than their regular squabbles.

This is something Gamora needs to pay attention with—because, as usual, it’ll be her job to act like the responsible adult and settle things in an orderly manner.

Rocket turns to face her curiously, no doubt awaiting a response.

Sighing, Gamora shuts down her holo and shuts her eyes, thinking.

_What can she say that’ll help?_

_What can she say that won’t make the situation worse?_

_What can she say that’ll help to resolve the argument?_

After a minute or so, she opens her eyes again—Rocket has turned back his attention to the controls, apparently losing interest. Or maybe he’s encouraging her to speak. Or maybe both.

Gamora clears her throat. “Maybe it is his fault,” she says slowly, careful not to provoke him. “But it could be yours, too. Just because he did something wrong doesn’t mean he’s the only one to blame.”

“You’re just saying that because you’re both completely blind when it comes to anything but each other,” Rocket grumbles.

Gamora glares at him.

He shrugs. “What? It's true.”

“My _point_ ,” Gamora says, sighing, “is that Peter probably blames _you._ But if you both blame each other, then you’ll get nowhere. I think that _you_ need to be the big guy and solve this stupid argument.”

Rocket contemplates that for a moment, then snorts. “Why should I be the big guy? He’s the big, squishy one, after all.” He shrinks under Gamora’s glare and lowers his voice. “But… yeah. I see what you’re tryna’ say. Don’t like it, but… “

Groaning, Rocket hops down from the pilot’s chair and wrings his hands together.

“God, I always gotta do everything ‘round here, don’t I?” he mutters to himself. _“Be the big guy, Rocket! Solve the argument, Rocket!_ Can’t Star-Idiot ever do anything?”

Rocket looks up to Gamora with an expression that vaguely resembles sheepishness. “I gotta go and make my new bomb—I mean, uh, sleep. I’ll talk to Pete in the morning, I guess. Don’t know if he’ll listen to me, but—maybe it’s worth a try. D’you mind taking over the controls for a while?”

“No problem.”

“Great.” Rocket starts making his way to the doorway, his tail swishing behind him. But before he gets to the door, he stops in his tracks.

“Hey, uh…” he turns around slowly without entirely meeting Gamora’s eyes. “Thanks for the advice. I’m sure the others don’t wanna hear Quill ‘n I argue any longer. So, I guess… thanks. You—ugh. You make us work better as a team.”

Before Gamora can respond, Rocket’s gone, disappearing through the doorway without another moment’s hesitation. Maybe that’s a good thing, though—Gamora’s not sure she could form a response, even if she tried.

One thought keeps swirling in her mind, twisting around and baffling her in every aspect imaginable: _has Rocket just_ willingly _complimented her?_

No. Rocket wouldn’t do that. Hasn’t done that—even through all the years they’ve been together, the guy would be caught _dead_ trying to be even _remotely_ kind to anybody. Let alone Gamora, who he tends to spend the least time with.

Why compliment her now?

Gamora chuckles—a small, soft laugh escaping her lips, echoing off the lonely walls of the cockpit.

Rocket _complimented_ her.

_What a day._

  


* * *

 

 

When Gamora feels the telltale signs of the world changing around her, the scenery transforming into something completely different, she instinctively closes her eyes.

Eventually, the room stops spinning. Gamora half expects to open her eyes and find herself dead, at the bottom of a cursed mountain, doomed to stay there for eternity longing for her friends and family—but instead, she finds herself in another familiar room.

Groot’s room.

The teenaged tree is there, huddled in his bed, staring intently at the video game in his grasp. His eyes, fixed on the screen, don’t ever blink—he doesn’t even seem to notice Gamora entering the room.

Taking strong, yet stealthy steps, Gamora gently approaches Groot and kneels beside him.

He doesn’t look up.

“Hey,” Gamora says. “Groot. Look at me.”

Reluctantly, he lifts his head.

“It’s way past your bedtime,” she chides. “What are you doing up?”

He offers a half-hearted _I am Groot_ in response. Choosing to ignore her, his eyes find their way back to the video game as he resumes his playing. But Gamora can see the way his vines droop, the way his eyelids threaten to close every few seconds. He must’ve been playing games all day; he’s _got_ to be exhausted.

“Groot,” Gamora says sternly. “That’s enough. This game is rotting your brain; you’ve got to take a break a get some sleep. Hand the game over.”

For a moment, she gets no response. Then the game falls from his hands and clatters to the ground.

Immediately, Gamora reaches down to check on Groot—his eyes are closed and his mouth droops open slightly. He’s fast asleep.

“Oh, Groot,” she mutters, kicking aside his game and undoing the covers to his bed. She gently tucks him under the blankets, waiting until his breaths are deep and even with sleep to step back, satisfied.

“Goodnight,” Gamora whispers and steps toward the door. Groot snores softly behind her.

As soon as she steps through the doorway, she finds Drax waiting there, leaning against the wall. It’s not unusual to realize Drax has been standing outside your door, listening to your conversation.

Gamora isn’t even fazed. “Goodnight, Drax,” she says, and turns to head over to her respective room.

“Wait,” he calls, causing her to stop in her tracks.

Slowly, she turns around to face him. He seems less humorous than usual, his eyes holding that sort of bittersweet melancholy he only expresses whilst remembering his late family. But there’s something else to it—a fondness, perhaps? Or a distant reminiscence of a long lost home?

Whatever the case, Drax clears his throat and continues. “How long has it been since we began living together, as a team?”

Gamora tilts her head. “I think… about three years, maybe four? Why do you ask?”

“I have been with you for quite some time, now,” Drax says, his voice staunch and unwavering. “When I first met you, I only saw you as the warrior and assassin I had recognized; I didn’t believe you to be a kind teammate or caring maternal figure in the slightest. But now…”

Drax takes a step forward, his eyes remaining fixed on her. Gamora can feel her heart beat faster, suddenly uncomfortable with the turn this conversation is taking. _What is he trying to say?_

“You are… different than I assumed you to be. You are not like Thanos,” Drax states, and the name makes her skin crawl.

 _Thanos, Thanos, Thanos,_ her mind taunts. _You’re just like Thanos, because he took you and he changed you and you’d be a terrible parent because that’s what he was_ —

 _Shut up,_ Gamora orders. Surprisingly, the voices in her mind go silent.

“—you handled the situation well,” Drax is saying. “And you care for Groot, just like my Hovat cared for my Kamaria.”

His voice breaks. Drax smiles tightly, no doubt remembering his late family and the life he could’ve led.

With a sharp inhale, Gamora realizes that in all the years they’ve been on this ship together, this is probably the most personal conversation they’ve had with each other. They seldom speak like this to each other—especially considering their feuds when they first met—and to have a conversation like _this…_

Gamora is so confused.

“I am glad to see that you are not like Thanos, even though he raised you. You make a good maternal figure for Groot.”

For a moment, Gamora is stunned into silence, unable to respond, barely comprehending Drax’s unusually kind words.

Then, somehow, she manages to find her voice.

“. . . thank you, Drax,” she manages, her voice catching.

But it isn’t enough.

“I… thank you, really. It—it means a lot to me.”

And she’s not just being polite; it’s true, his statements really touch her. To be like Thanos, to allow her ruined childhood to disparage another innocent child’s… that has to be among her greatest fears. And to hear that she’s doing okay, from a _former parent_ with _experience,_ no less…

It means so much to her.

Gamora isn’t good with words, never has been—she’s a warrior, not a speaker. She usually leaves the diplomatic missions or negotiation jobs to someone with more talent at them, like Peter. She can’t convey to Drax how much his words mean to her, the full effect they have on Gamora and her conscience.

But Drax nods, seeming to understand what she’s trying to convey. “You are a valued teammate, Gamora. Sometimes we take advantage of you… but you should know how much this team needs you.”

“They’d be helpless without me, wouldn’t they,” Gamora says, smirking, and earns a hearty laugh from Drax.

“Well, that is all,” Drax says after the laughter dies down. “Goodnight, friend.”

Gamora watches him make his way down the hallway, finally disappearing behind the door to his room.

His cordial words reverberate in his mind: _you make a good maternal figure. You are not like Thanos._

_You are a valued teammate._

Drax said so. And Drax is known for always being bluntly honest without end.

_She’s a valued teammate._

Gamora smiles.

 

* * *

 

When her surroundings fade and then reassemble again, many new things appear in this setting. Other things are left behind.

Gamora’s smile stays.

When she’s regained enough of her senses to comprehend her surroundings, she finds herself to be back where she was before, dancing with Peter, safe in the comfort of his loving embrace.

It’s exactly like it was before—they’re swaying softly to that song Gamora’d liked, their movements becoming slower and less defined as the tension brews.

Gamora can feel herself inching closer and closer, itching to get as much as him as possible. Her heart pounds ferociously in her chest, her mind bombarding her with irrational thoughts— _what if this all goes wrong? What if he’s just playing you? What if this ruins your relationship forever?_

But her desire overrides her anxiety, and soon she finds herself grabbing Peter’s face with both hands, capturing his lips in hers.

Oh.

_Oh._

Suddenly, Gamora is complete now. Peter’s lips are so warm, so soft—every second connecting them with hers sets off fireworks in her mind. He responds to the kiss immediately, wrapping his arms around her waist, up her back, everywhere. There’s nothing forced or rushed about it, unlike the kisses Gamora’s experienced in the past—each and every touch is caring, compassionate, and full of love.

_Oh._

Gamora only has a moment more to relish the feeling before Peter pulls away, gasping.

She’s beaming—she’s terrified— _she’s happy_ —but the moment of bliss is soon forgotten when she notices the pain displayed all over Peter’s face.

A sinking feeling of dread settles in Gamora’s stomach— _what happened? Did she do something wrong? Did she ruin everything?_

Peter gasps harshly again, releasing his grip on Gamora—her body suddenly feels empty, like she’s missing a piece of herself. _But she can’t focus on that_ —because Peter looks like he’s physically in pain right now, and every fiber of Gamora’s being is distressed.

He sinks to the ground, clutching his head, his chest heaving with uneven, ragged breaths. Gamora has a split second to register the emotion on his face—he looks terrified, he looks aghast, he looks like he’s _dying_ —before he closes his eyes.

His body crumbles to dust.

“Peter?” Gamora whispers, panic creeping up on her.

She stares at the spot where he’d been just a moment ago. She blinks—blinks again—blinks a third time, because _goddammit_ —this _cannot_ be happening right now.

“PETER!”

But the dust on the ground remains untouched, the disintegrated remnants of the man she loves scattered everywhere, trickling through the grated floor.

She bends down to rake her fingers through the dust—the last remains of Peter Quill.

They’re warm.

Just like he was.

Gamora can’t help it then, _won’t_ help it—she lets forth a blood-curdling scream, louder and stronger than anything she’s ever managed before. Not only for Peter— _oh god, Peter_ —but for everything. For her destroyed childhood, for her years and years of torture. For her _finally_ discovering something good, something _pure_ and _amazing_ and all-around _wonderful,_ only for it to be taken from her.

Like everything else in her life, Peter is gone—so Gamora screams. She screams, and screams, and screams, and she doesn’t stop until the world dissolves around her and the dark ceiling of the Quadrant transforms into the dark, cloudy, mesmerizing skies of Vormir. The grated metal floor below her morphs into pure air, and Gamora finds that her tears aren’t falling downwards anymore.

They’re falling upwards, drifting into the sky above her.

Because, of course, _of fucking course,_ it had just been a dream, an illusion. None of it had been real—Peter, Groot, Drax, Rocket, Mantis—they’d all been in her head.

That hadn’t been real.

This is.

Gamora is falling through the sky at 200 kilometers an hour with nothing stopping her from reaching the ground.

 

* * *

 

Gamora isn’t sure when the numbness hits.

All she can remember is the harsh wind snapping to a stop, a sharp stab of agony rearing through her entire body, and then nothing.

Gamora can feel her life dwindling, her soul leaving her body. She’s glad there isn’t much pain—is that a good thing, or a bad thing?—but she thinks of Peter’s face and suddenly everything hurts again.

_Peter._

Oh god, Peter.

She wishes things were different. She wishes she could see his face. She wishes she would’ve fallen in love with someone else, anyone else—or, even better, no one at all—because this is Peter Jason Quill. The kind, loving, arrogant moron who always treated her with such care and gentleness. The guy that always sticks up for her and the team, the one that’s always willing to sacrifice himself for his friends—and Gamora knows, she just _knows_ he won’t be okay after this.

He’s lost so much—so has Gamora, so has every goddamn person on their team—and they were foolish to believe their happiness would last. They’ve all lost things—and sure, they gained a lot from their time together as Guardians—but it was just a distraction. An obstacle the universe had stuck in the path of their lives, because the universe just _has_ to be so _fucking funny,_ right?

None of it matters in the end. Her soul is leaving her body now—or has it already left? Gamora doesn’t know, can’t know, has no idea what’s going on—just imagines Peter’s loving face and Mantis’ beautiful innocence and Rocket’s concealed sentiment and Drax’s tender care. She imagines Nebula’s reticent concern and Groot’s big, curious eyes staring at her in awe and wonder—and if Gamora hadn’t already been dead, she is now.

_Gamora’s dead._

And Thanos is out there somewhere, strengthened by the murder of his daughter, seeking to commit genocide and becoming the most powerful being in the universe.

_I have spent most of my life surrounded by my enemies. I will be grateful to die among my friends._

Her friends…

Her family.

Peter can’t save her this time. He can’t do _anything._ And Gamora knows—she just _knows_ —it’ll crush him. It’ll crush _all_ of them.

And she can’t do a single thing about it.

Darkness overtakes her, consuming every inch of her mind and forcing the thought of her friends away from her mind.

_Her friends?_

Her family.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *presses post and throws computer to the other side of the room* I'M SO FUCKIN DONE WITH THIS FIC.
> 
> But seriously. This chapter feels like such a disappointment to me. It's the last chapter!! I'm supposed to post it on time!! It's supposed to be good!! I'm supposed to feel confident about it!! And, of course, my draft HAD to be deleted for no reason other than my computer sucks. The chapter that I was actually happy with?? It's lost in the void. Sorry guys. 
> 
> Again. Sorry. This chapter was confusing, I know. And rushed. And overly complicated. I literally could've stuck with 2k words of Gamora falling, but I'd realized that _I had no starmora dancing in this fic_ so I _somehow_ managed to include that in this chapter lol. 
> 
> Anyway… that's all. Thanks for staying with me and getting me through this. Every comment has been motivation for me and I couldn't be more grateful for the kind words I've received for this fic. <3
> 
> I'll admit it: writing for the Guardians was a thrilling experience and I really want to do it again. I have some fics drafted/planned that aren't focusing on the Guardians, but as soon as I finish those I'll get to writing these characters again. I'll probably sneak in a few one-shots for the[ Guardians holiday event](https://star_munches.tumblr.com/post/179839400562/guardians-of-the-galaxy-holiday-special-prompt) as well. And then… I have a pretty big chapter fic ft. these characters coming shortly thereafter!! ~~I'm not gonna get any sleep lmao what's new~~
> 
>  **TL;DR:** thank you for reading, you're amazing, and (hopefully) I'll be posting new content for the Guardians in a few weeks, so stay tuned for that!  <33

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading. Kudos and comments bring me joy :)
> 
> If you want, you can check out my [tumblr](http://www.star_munches.tumblr.com) and scream with me about starmora and all things marvel (i'm currently lacking friends, so i think some social interaction would do me good).
> 
> Again, thanks for reading! Hopefully I'll post the next chapter in a week or so. <3


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